


Anyplace but those I know by heart

by Natarie



Category: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, BAMF John Watson, Can't believe I just tagged this as "romcomlock", Fake/Pretend Relationship, Get ready for All The Tropes, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, References to Alcoholism Recovery, Romcomlock, What Have I Done, Yeah that tag just about covers it, tags added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4774256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natarie/pseuds/Natarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John accepts a ridiculous bet to prove his heterosexuality once and for all.<br/>Sherlock attempts to be marginally more sociable at the risk of losing his trust fund.</p><p>They’re both about to get a lot more than they bargained for.</p><p>(A BBC Sherlock-style How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Open Door Opening

**Author's Note:**

> After seeing Sherlock’s “normal” parents in S3, I started thinking about Mycroft’s oft-toted “Caring isn’t an advantage” and wondered exactly how that worked out when the Holmesian childhood hinted at in the show seems to have been plenty caring. Toss in my usual enthusiasm for stupid romcom tropes, sprinkle with [Re-Ane’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensouls) frequent seconding of plotbunnies _that I really don’t need_ (because _clearly_ I need another WIP on top of all the others), and blend on low for several months, and this is the result.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: I'm not British, and self-edit (mostly unsuccessfully) for unnecessary adverbs and qualifiers. If you see something, let me know.
> 
> Title from "Follow You Down" by Gin Blossoms because what is my life.

Sherlock paused in his note-taking when the downstairs door opened, waiting for Mrs. Hudson to enter her flat before picking up his purloined hair dryer. Instead of Mrs. Hudson’s softer tread shuffling into her rooms, equally familiar but less welcome footsteps started up the stairs to the second floor landing. Sherlock scowled and thumbed on the hair dryer, unwilling to listen to his brother’s lumbering steps in the misguided but ever optimistic hope that ignoring Mycroft would make him more likely to bugger off.

Whatever busybody business for which Mycroft had come calling clearly made him uncomfortable. He waited nearly a full thirty seconds standing in the doorway to the sitting room after saying Sherlock’s name at a normal volume before raising his voice to be heard over the hum of the hair dryer. For him to lose his temper even to that degree over imparting news that distressed him was incredibly telling. Not government business then. Sherlock was even more inclined to ignore him, but considering the likeliest source of Mycroft’s information it would be prudent to get it over with as soon as possible.

“Mycroft,” he finally acknowledged, still applying even heat to the forearm in front of him as he turned to glower at his unwelcome relation.

His brother opened his mouth to reply and closed it, frustration creasing his eyebrows. Sherlock kept his face fixed in a scowl. Whatever it was, he was going to _hate_ it.

“For god’s sake,” Mycroft finally snapped, turning back into the sitting room. “I will not have this conversation while fighting with a hair dryer. You have some idea why I’m here. Please give me the honor of your attention so we can both have done with this.”

Every action a study in grudging acquiescence, Sherlock put aside his experiment and threw himself across the sitting room and onto the sofa.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, enough in control of his emotions that the words carried only a hint of sarcasm.

“What does Mummy want then?”

“Mummy is… concerned.”

He spoke right over Sherlock’s muttered “When is Mummy _not_ concerned?”

“Since University you have shown a distinct trend towards eschewing all forms of meaningful human contact. At the time of your lapse it was understandable, but now that your personal and professional lives have stabilized Mummy thinks it is high time for you to make an attempt.”

“Much as I’d like to avoid unnecessary social interaction, having chosen to become a Consulting Detective makes that task impossible.”

“Unfortunately,” Mycroft looked _and_ sounded pained, “according to Mummy work relationships do not count. At least not work relationships as you conduct them.”

The way Mycroft pronounced the word “you” immediately caught Sherlock’s attention. Deductions flashed quickly through his mind: Mycroft’s discomfort in sharing this news when he was usually so fond of meddling in Sherlock’s life. The frequency and sincerity in which his lesser emotions, normally suppressed with a dictatorial hand, had risen to the surface over the course of his visit.

Sherlock sat up in shock.

“My god, she’s after you, too.”

“Yes,” Mycroft actually appeared nauseated, “Father pointed out it would be… unfair of me to escape with the same excuse you could not use.”

There was a brief pause. Mycroft clearly needed the time to compose himself. Sherlock was too torn between glee and astonished dread to speak.

“Mummy insists that it need only be a real and honest _attempt_ at sociability. She has neither a desire to separate you from your Work, nor to force you into any truly undesirable interaction. You might try elevating your professional relationships at New Scotland Yard into actual friendships, joining a society where you can debate with actual physical human beings rather than lambasting anonymous persons of limited intelligence on the Internet, or,” a small, nearly invisible shudder, “dating.”

“The last a suggestion from Father, I take it,” Sherlock drawled. “Boring.”

“You did enjoy your Fencing Club for a time early in your University career.”

Sherlock didn’t bother dignifying that with a response, letting his body go limp to slump back against the sofa cushions.

“Fine,” Mycroft sighed. “If you will not acknowledge Mummy’s wishes, I’ve been instructed to cut off access to your account.” 

Sherlock sat up again, this time in fury. 

“What? You can’t.”

“I assure you, I can. During your lapse in University I was made primary guardian of your funds. Though I have since made them available to you, my status remains intact. Mummy might finally consider transferring account ownership to you, as it should have been upon achievement of your majority, if you take her concerns in mind.”

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to fling himself upright and into violent pacing of the sitting room floor, clenching his hands in the upholstery of the sofa instead.

“And what punishment will your disobedience merit?”

“Will knowing make you any more willing to concede?” 

He might have snarled at Mycroft’s calm response if his brother hadn’t paled as he’d spoken, eyes darting to the left for just a second as if imaging the dire fate with which Mummy, likely with creative input from Father, had threatened him.

For Mycroft to be as nervous as he was spelled ill for Sherlock. When Mummy put her foot down the results were terrifying, but it was Father’s support of the scheme that most worried Sherlock. With the two of them as a united front, there was little choice but to obey. No attempt at wheedling or whinging would compel them to change their minds. They would cut off access to his account, and Sherlock didn’t need to run the figures through his head to know that the current frequency of his consulting was insufficient to fully support his lifestyle. 

Conceding with bad grace, he reached for his violin. 

“Sentiment, Mycroft?” Having accepted the situation did not mean Sherlock intended to forgive his brother for delivering the bad news personally. “What happened to caring not being an advantage?”

Mycroft flinched. Had Sherlock not been watching out of the corner of his eye, he might have missed the miniscule twitch of facial muscles. Shocked, he plucked a different string than he’d originally intended and startled himself with the discordant note.

“I have been informed,” Mycroft said, forming the syllables in his mouth with infinite care, “of the logical fallacy of this belief. Mummy was displeased at my having shared it with you.”

Rendered speechless twice in the same conversation was a new and unpleasant experience for Sherlock. He would have liked to goad Mycroft into revealing the contents of Mummy’s chastisement if he’d thought it possible, but Sherlock was a genius not a magician. Mycroft looked like he was at the end of his rope for the very first time since they were children.

Blackmail might have earned him points in their usual brotherly battle of one-upmanship, but with the rules of this game having been set by their parents Sherlock had limited options available to him. He could either find some loophole in Mummy’s edict that Mycroft had yet to discover—unlikely. Or—and Sherlock couldn’t believe how desperate he had to be to even consider this—he would have to succeed above and beyond anything Mycroft was capable of.

“I shall take my leave now,” Mycroft said, rudely interrupting Sherlock’s plotting. “Mummy has granted you a ten-day grace period. If your behavior has not changed by the end of that time, I will lock your account.”

He stood and collected his umbrella from the stand by the door, pausing on the landing to look at Sherlock over his shoulder.

“Oh, and you might want to do something about that before your friends at the Met become concerned.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked towards the pink case before darting back with a roll that implied his doubt in the members of NSY being smart enough to find their collective arses, much less remember the missing suitcase and come to the realization that he had already located it.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow—too conceited to ignore the chance at another parting shot—and left. The instant his back was turned Sherlock leapt to his feet with his violin and played through the opening notes of Saint-Saëns’ Caprice-Valse, Op. 76 just before the downstairs door closed.

 

* * *

 

Harry was twenty minutes late to their coffee date, which gave John just enough time to complete three Sudoku puzzles on his phone: two medium, one hard. It said something about their relationship that he was more annoyed at having his puzzle-solving streak interrupted when Harry finally arrived five minutes later, than he was at her being late in the first place.

“Sorry, Johnny, I overslept.”

She dumped her purse on a chair and went to order them each a coffee as was her usual habit after arriving late to their weekly meetings.

“Here,” she pushed a coffee into his hands before slumping into her chair with a clatter of china.

John accepted the cup and took a sip, hiding his grimace of distaste with practiced ease. The coffee was still too sweet, though nowhere near as cloying as it had been when they’d first started their sibling get-togethers. Proof positive that Harry _was_ capable of noticing when she’d done something wrong and changing her behavior to suit, though it was a lengthy process.

Harry greeted her coffee with a relieved sigh, and John took the opportunity to study her. She hadn’t been lying about oversleeping; this was probably her first source of caffeine after rushing out of her flat. She’d only bothered with makeup to cover the worst of her exhaustion, but couldn’t do anything to hide her red-rimmed eyes or the general paleness of her skin. Harry was sober again and struggling with it. He stared for a moment too long and Harry’s eyes opened, lingering satisfaction over her coffee shifting instantly into annoyance.

“Let’s not, _really_ , Johnny,” she snapped, fingers tightening on the cup. “It was two weeks yesterday.”

“All right,” John agreed, keeping his voice as bland as possible and hiding his expression behind another sip of his too-sweet coffee.

Harry’s eyes narrowed at him, but she glanced away without speaking. Too exhausted from sleeping poorly to blow up at him, John thought. Best to follow her example and not dwell on it, then. Harry had made it as far as three months clean once before giving in, but the quickest way to make her lose her temper and ruin their tentative peace was to comment on her drinking.

“Otherwise, how have you been?”

“Good,” she said, staring into her coffee cup rather than look at him. “I may have- Well, actually. I’m—I met someone.”

“Really?” John cursed himself for not knowing the proper way to react. “That’s, er, great. Isn’t it?”

The small smirk on Harry’s lips faded as quickly as it had appeared.

“No, actually, it’s not. I can barely get myself out of bed most days, what would I do with a relationship? I may be a mess right now, but I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.” 

John swallowed and fixed his gaze over Harry’s left shoulder. He wasn’t saying a word until Harry gave him more of a hint on what to say. They hadn’t talked about it in ages, but neither had forgotten John’s disapproval when Harry had chosen the bottle over Clara. The sibling truce they’d struck to agree to—and keep from yelling at each other at—their weekly meetups carried all sorts of unspoken rules and tacit agreements. One of them being that John wasn’t allowed to bring up Clara or the divorce, directly or obliquely. 

“Anyway it was just a feeling, you know? I didn’t pursue it and I’ll probably never even see her again.”

There was real regret in her voice and John frowned down at his barely-touched coffee. It was too bad, really, because the divorce had tied Harry’s alcoholism inextricably with her relationship status in a way that only complicated her recovery and her sense of self worth. Even a casual friendship might have provided the kind of support John didn’t or couldn’t provide, but Harry was too scared of hurting another person like she’d hurt Clara to reach out.

Back in Afghanistan when John had lived every day with a sense of purpose, relishing the challenges every morning might bring, he hadn’t understood how Harry could feel so powerless. But since his return he’d come to understand only too well how the grey monotony of life could wear you down until the simple task of breathing felt like more of a chore than a necessity. It had taken him far too long just to work up the effort to apply to locum GP positions, too busy coping with the sucking misery to leave his flat most days.

Talking about Harry’s ill-fated love life made him think about the interview he’d had a few days ago. Dr. Sarah Sawyer was smart, beautiful, and enthusiastic about her job. Under other circumstances she might have been just his type and he would’ve been inappropriately pleased to be offered a job at the same surgery as her. But when he’d realized she was very subtly flirting during the interview it hadn’t been sweet and bright, like popping into a romcom where the perfect words came straight to his lips the way things were before he’d been shot.

Instead everything had been slightly, incomprehensibly _off_ , like putting on an old pair of shoes he’d forgotten about and then outgrown. The John Watson who’d smiled and very subtly flirted back had been him, but not the current him, just some echo of what he’d used to be that he’d worn like a mask. And how could he even think of dating when their first interaction had been him shamming as if he wasn’t a ghost walking around in the skin of a man?

“So,” Harry sighed, interrupting his melancholy thoughts, “now that we’ve established my love life is DOA, let’s talk about yours, baby brother.”

John lifted his coffee to his lips to give himself a few moments to think, but winced when he realized it was now only lukewarm and even less appealing than before.

Harry raised an eyebrow and sat back in her chair.

“I take it that means no new prospects, then?”

“Look,” John put his cup down and pushed the saucer away with a grimace, “I’m just not ready to date yet, Harry. I’m still settling in.”

“It’s been _months_ , Johnny. You’d have had at least a dozen one-night stands by now if you’d been on leave.”

“Thanks, Harry. Really appreciate having my sister call me a slag. Ta very much for that.”

Harry snorted and crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re making excuses, John. What’s really wrong?”

John opened his mouth and closed it without having said anything. Talking to Harry was marginally better than talking to his therapist, but several months’ worth of strained conversations with his sister hadn’t made either of them better at expressing themselves.

In this case not saying anything turned out to be the correct response. Harry smiled ruefully and started playing with her empty cup.

“I get it. Everything’s different now. You can’t just do things the way you used to anymore.”

She paused to turn the cup in her hands thoughtfully before setting it aside and looking up at him. For a second she wasn’t tired, bitter, struggling alcoholic Harry, but the older sister he’d known when they were children who’d always had advice for him when he’d needed it most. John stared in surprise and then—

“You know what you need? A change. If women aren’t doing it anymore, you could always try men.” 

“No, Harry, what- _Christ_ , not this again. How many times do I have to say that I’m _not_ —”

“Gay? You’re at least a _little_ bisexual, Johnny, and that’s not the same thing.”

John groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. Trust Harry to go and ruin what had honestly felt like a bit of a moment between them. 

“No, hear me out,” Harry insisted. “You don’t _prefer_ men, it’s true, but every so often… There was the one boy in secondary, Toby, who you were utterly mad for until his family moved away at the end of  the term. And I’m _sure_ you had something for Arthur, that bloke you were friends with second year Uni. No one has a falling-out of that magnitude without there being more than friendship involved. Oh, and your commanding officer, Shorto or something? Maybe you two weren’t actually anything, but, Johnny, you should have _read_ the things you wrote about him in your emails. Even I noticed, and my life was self destructing around me at the time.”

By the end of her list John’s face was a dull red, and though he told himself it was from anger, he couldn’t deny that Harry wasn’t at least a _little_ bit right.

“No, Harry. I’m not gay, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore—”

“I’ll make you a bet,” Harry interrupted again, eyes sparkling.

It was like talking about his love life had released pre-meltdown Harry from wherever she’d been hiding. Suddenly she was smirking a familiar mischievous smirk, one that had convinced several of his almost and barely-even girlfriends when he was younger to decide that maybe they preferred a female Watson to a male one.

“If you try dating a man, I’ll go to rehab.”

John gaped for a moment before anger overcame his bewilderment.

“You know what, Harry? No, just no. I won’t be- Jesus, you can’t just expect me to _pretend_ for some person as a requirement for you to finally get clean!”

Before he could stand up Harry leaned across the table and put her hand over his, the touch shocking him out of his anger.

“It’s not just you, John. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. But I’m- I’m scared. If I really commit to this and then fail I… I’m not sure I’ll ever get clean. So this is like an ultimatum for me, you see? To face my fears. For both of us to face our fears.

“Whenever you’ve been interested in another man you’ve fallen hard and you’ve fallen fast, and it’s never worked out for you. You’re scared of that, of feeling that pain. Women have always been safer. But you’re my brother and whatever else you are you’re _not_ a coward.”

John swallowed and turned his hand over to thread his fingers through hers. He could see the confident Harry of the past overlaid with the older, pained Harry of the present. It struck him suddenly that what his sister really needed was for those two versions to merge, wiser after everything she’d been through.

“Neither of us are. Watsons are too stubborn and bullheaded to be cowards.”

Harry answered him with a small smile and squeezed his hand, both of them pretending for a few seconds that they had something stuck in their eyes. 

“Okay,” Harry declared after they’d composed themselves. “You have to actually _try_ , no pretending or going in halfway. I’ll give you ten days, long enough for at least two dinner dates and maybe a lunch date. Your shortest relationship ever was Violet Smith and that was eight days, so you can’t say I’m being unreasonable. Especially because you usually wait until the third date before having sex.”

“Christ,” John signed. Now that the emotional bit was over and Harry was actually outlining _conditions_ he was starting to regret his decision. Being given a loophole so he wouldn’t have to think about gay sex just yet wasn’t enough to overcome his other reservations.

“This isn’t actually a bet, Harry. You’re going to rehab whether or not this works out for me.”

“Yes, but if you _don’t_ find Mr. Right, or at least what you’d like to _find_ in Mr. Right, you’ll be able to tell me I was wrong and that you’re one-hundred-percent straight. And I’ll let it go. I’ll never bother you about your sexuality again.”

John raised his eyebrows, actually tempted. Nosy sister that she was, Harry had been pestering him about his potential bisexuality for years. For Harry, who never liked to be wrong if she could help it, to actually offer to let something go for once without a fight was unprecedented. But reality reasserted itself again and he shook his head.

“Oh, Johnny, don’t back down _now_. Come on, what have you got to lose?”

“This is just- This is ridiculous, Harry. I don’t know the first thing about picking up a man. What am I supposed to do?”

Harry rolled her eyes. “The same thing you do with a woman, only with a man? For Christ’s sake, you went to _war_. I know you can pull a man if you actually try. Here-” She started scanning the other patrons of the cafe around them, obviously looking for a likely mark.

“Okay, try him.”

John looked in the direction she was pointing and felt his mouth drop. Of _course_ Harry had to pick the poshest bloke in the place, looking like a runway model as he stood at the counter waiting for his order. John grimaced and turned back to tell Harry that a woman who dressed like that was out of his league, much less a man, but she was staring at him with a skeptical expression straight out of his childhood. As if there hadn’t been enough deja vu in the conversation already, it was the exact face she’d always used when she thought John was being particularly stupid and, bloody hell, he could already feel his jaw tensing as he rose to the challenge.

“I thought you said Watsons _weren’t_ cowards?”

Not sure if he was more annoyed with her for talking him into this mad situation, or himself for falling for it, John clenched his hand over the handle of his cane but didn’t get up.

“Better hurry,” Harry taunted, “he’s going to leave.”

The man she’d selected looked up from his mobile seconds before the barista appeared and swiped for his drink before she could call his name.

John looked back at Harry. She was smirking. The man stalked towards the front of the cafe, apparently able to walk and text at the same time. John cursed and levered himself from his chair just as the other man reached the door.


	2. Meet Cute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word count on this is already getting out of control.
> 
> Thank you to those who commented! Updates TBD as I plan to actually construct an outline instead of just riding blindly off into the sunset as per my usual MO.

“Excuse me-”

Sherlock shuffled to the side without glancing away from his mobile, but the voice followed him.

“Er, actually, that is-”

Peeved at the continued interruption, Sherlock looked up. Shorter blond man, blue eyes, nervous expression, hand clenched around the handle of his cane. Sherlock took in the details automatically, deductions spiralling off from what he observed. The information slotted into place easily except—He was missing something. What was it?

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The other man paused it whatever he’d still been saying, mouth gaping in surprise.

“What- Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…?”

 _Oh_. Yes, that was it. The faint whiff he’d caught, persistent and lingering, was the sterile smell of antiseptic and bleach. Not just army, army _doctor_ , recently returned and interviewing for jobs. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the cane again before re-examining the other man. Oh, interesting. 

“Army doctor, recently home from service in Afghanistan. You’ve a cane, but the injury that invalided you out and ended your career wasn’t in your leg. Intermittent tremors in your left hand suggest a wound to your shoulder. The original injury must have been traumatic—wounded in action, then—so the limp that troubles you when you walk is at least partly psychosomatic. It’s certainly not bothering you now. When you’re standing you forget it’s supposed to be there. Your therapist’s concerned, but she’ll be pleased to hear about the interviews. GP, unless I miss my guess. The tremors are evidence of nerve damage; no hospital would hire you as a surgeon in your condition.”

Even as his mouth opened and words spilled out Sherlock’s brain kept churning. The man’s eyes had dilated slightly the instant Sherlock had spoken, darting to his mouth before resettling on his eyes as dictated by societal politeness. But they didn’t remain there, roaming over the contours of his face, down his neck, back up to his mouth, only to return to his eyes.

Attraction. Simple. _Obvious_.

Curiously, the man’s eyes also moved to measure the distance from his throat to chin, chin to nose, and nose to crown in a pattern that seemed at odds with his otherwise pedestrian appreciation of Sherlock’s features.

Middle of the afternoon on a weekday meant he was still unemployed, clothing too casual to suggest he'd come straight from a job interview, so had he stopped for coffee alone or to meet someone else? Alone if coming from therapy, but— Sherlock rewound time in his head to the initial scan he'd made on walking in and _yes_ , there—there he was, sitting at a table in the back with another similar blond head. Frustratingly the other person's back had been to Sherlock the entire time, sitting behind another patron at such an angle that he'd not even glimpsed a hint at a profile or what the probable sibling had been wearing.

But the nervousness, the stumbling initial approach, the obvious arousal, and what Sherlock could now identify as an unconscious height comparison all came together instantly.

Over the doctor's head Sherlock saw a security camera a block down turn deliberately from its view of the street to point in their direction. He almost scowled at Mycroft’s less-than-subtle meddling, but then an idea struck him, as perfectly brilliant as any of his deductions.

 _This_ would be his loophole. A recently invalidated army doctor who’d just been convinced by his brother—likely a gay or bisexual older brother, supportive after having gone through the process himself—to try out his newly-acknowledged bisexuality on Sherlock was the _perfect_ candidate to use in foiling his parents’ wretched scheme.

It would be easy, really. In fact, Sherlock could treat it as a new experiment. He’d never tried to hold another person’s attentions for longer than a few days. It would be a matter of weeks, maybe a few months, before Mummy was convinced and so pleased with his supposed romance that she had Mycroft sign over the financial independence Sherlock needed to continue The Work.

And when he had what he wanted it would be simple enough to scare off his “boyfriend.” It was all there in his stance, the way he gripped his cane, the measuring of their heights. This was a man used to making the first move, to heterosexual relationships where the male had the more traditional gender role. He’d approached first, but it wasn’t enough to assuage his worries over the foreign process of pulling a man, especially one like Sherlock whose height and angular features weren’t feminine in the least. After he’d rubbed Mycroft’s smug fat face in his success all he need do was increase the pace, push more than the doctor was comfortable with, and he’d break it off himself, with no blame on Sherlock’s part.

The thoughts and subsequent plan came in a flash, barely more than a few seconds outside the privacy of Sherlock’s head. Unfortunately those few seconds had been more than enough for his brain to outstrip his mouth, which had let loose with the automatic deductions he made on being pestered by the next blithering idiot, the kind that rarely inured him to anyone. He snapped his mouth shut before he could vocalize the man’s uncertain sexuality, but that was little comfort with everything else he’d already said.

Well, the experience didn’t have to be a total waste. He could use it as a control, for how his normal response affected those who were interested in him. Sherlock was mid-conjecture on how to find and attract a similar individual and arrange an organic meeting capable of fooling Mycroft when the doctor finally spoke, words shocking Sherlock out of his own head like a bucket of cold water.

“That... was amazing.”

His eyes were shining with pleased surprise, not anger, and the grin that stretched his lips transformed his entire face from his previous hesitation. Sherlock felt a little flush in his chest at the way everything had suddenly fixed itself. _Not_ a control, then.

“Do you think so?”

“Of _course_ ,” the other man’s expression was practically dazzled. “It was brilliant, really. Just brilliant.”

Sherlock swallowed down his correction with difficulty. No need to question a favorable reaction when it suited his purposes. Instead, he held out his empty hand.

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“My job involves on-call freelance consulting. You might not hear from me for days on end. Would that bother you?”

“No… I’m sorry, what?”

He finally allowed some of the excitement he felt to show on his face.

“Potential dates should know the worst about each other, don’t you agree? Give me your phone.”

And, to add to Sherlock’s overall satisfaction at the turn of events, the doctor did. Sherlock took it, doubly pleased at finding his guess about the brother confirmed by the inscription on the back, and quickly tapped in his number.

“How do you feel about Italian?”

“Love it. But- That’s it? I haven’t even introduced myself yet and you’re agreeing to a date?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, bemused that _this_ was the part of the conversation the other man took issue with.

“I know about your current profession, your army career and the circumstances that made you leave the service, and your inept therapist’s diagnosis of your psychosomatic limp. That’s enough to go on a blind date, don’t you think? Now- must dash. I need to see a woman about an arm.”

He handed the mobile back, smiling.

“And the name’s Sherlock Holmes.”

He winked and left before the coffee he’d bought to bribe Molly could grow any cooler. He needed a replacement for the experiment Mycroft had ruined that morning, after which he had a date to plan, and maybe by then he’d have a new lead on the serial suicide case. For such an unpromising start, the day had certainly improved enormously.

 

* * *

 

“Sorry, Johnny!” Harry was pale and repentant, a shredded napkin evidence of what she’d been doing while he was gone. “I really just wanted to push you a little. Was it awful?” 

“No,” John mumbled, still in shock. “No, it wasn’t awful.”

“Oh, god, you’re traumatized now, aren’t you? I should’ve been more careful. I have friends I could’ve set you up with, I was just too eager to prove how bloody right I was.”

Instead of trying to talk over Harry’s second-guessing John opened up the address book on his mobile to scroll for his newest contact. Sherlock Holmes’ name was there, just as he’d entered it, with both the number and email address fields filled in. It was the last thing John needed to finally shake himself out of his daze. That _had_ really happened. He laughed once in sheer relieved delight and shoved his phone at Harry.

“It wasn’t awful at all. He gave me his number.”

“Oh my _god!_ ” Harry shrieked, inappropriately loud for the middle of a weekday afternoon, and lunged for John’s phone. “Bloody hell, Johnny, I can’t believe you picked up Mr. Posh. Three Continents Watson, indeed.”

“Honestly, I have no idea how.” John shook his head in bemusement. “Can’t say I’ve ever pulled a woman like that.”

“‘Sherlock Holmes,’” Harry read, and some of her enthusiasm faded. “That’s not a real name, surely. He didn’t just…?”

“Give me a fake number?” He shrugged and took back his mobile to show Harry the email address. “But why go to the effort of giving me an email if it’s fake?”

Harry frowned down at the address, but before she could say anything the phone vibrated and she nearly dropped it in surprise.

“Angelo’s, seven o’clock, and then an address,” John reported. He looked at Harry in astonishment. “Apparently I have a date tonight.”

Harry stared at him, expression a likely female mirror of his own, before seizing his hand and grinning.

“ _Oh my god!_ ” Her tone this time was closer to fourteen-year-old Harry than mid-forties-year-old Harry. Several of the people nearby glanced at them and John fought not to blush.

They stayed another hour, Harry insisting they needed to “strategize”—which mostly consisted of the two of them taking turns looking at the website Sherlock’s email linked to on John’s mobile, and John attempting to explain, when Harry asked, that being “deduced” hadn’t felt weird at all, quite the contrary actually.

When he left, with yet another assurance that he _had_ things to wear for a first date, thank you, John realized it had been the most pleasant meeting he’d had with his sister in a long, long time. Maybe it was the fact that he’d finally agreed to follow Harry’s advice about his love life, or the fact that they’d both been honest about their fears instead of growing defensive and snapping the way they always had in the past. Optimistically, John chose to chalk it up to both and went home to kill the remaining few hours before he’d need to get ready, buoyed even further when Sarah called to offer him the job and asked if he’d be able to come in the next day to fill out some paperwork.

His optimism lasted up until he arrived at the restaurant, was personally greeted by the owner who’d been prompted to recognize him on sight, and seated at a table by the window with a candle “to make it more romantic.”

Only at that point did it occur to him that there were details of date etiquette he had no idea how to handle. He’d done the asking, so was he paying? Would they split? He usually paid on the first date, but he’d only ever had those with women before. That prior experience might be hurting him here. He’d arrived fifteen minutes early as he usually did, but felt awkward now. Even if the owner didn’t tell him, from what had happened earlier and the posts on Sherlock’s site John knew he’d never be able to pass off how long he’d been waiting. Would he seem overeager? Too intense? Things he’d never once questioned about his dating behavior became sudden pitfalls, sapping the confidence he’d gained from Sherlock agreeing in the first place.

So when Sherlock finally swept in several minutes later, John was a bit of a nervous wreck and fully regretting how taking Harry’s advice had led to him sitting in a restaurant sweating like a barely-pubescent teenager on a first date.

“John,” Sherlock greeted, draping his coat over the back of his chair. He unbuttoned his suit jacket before sitting down, revealing a tight purple shirt nearly on the verge of indecency.

“Apologies. I judged you the type to arrive early, but was delayed. You didn’t accept Angelo’s offer of wine while you were waiting? You needn’t have worried. He has an excellent selection.” 

“I wanted to wait until after I ordered.” He managed to drag his eyes away from Sherlock’s chest. Then: “Hang on, how did you know my name?”

“Angelo, of course. And your surname from the back of your mobile.”

Sherlock smirked and raised a hand, summoning the man himself to their table.

“Ready to order, Sherlock?”

“Yes. The usual, for me, and for Doctor Watson—” He paused so John made his request for the spaghetti bolognese— “and a bottle of my usual wine, too. Thank you, Angelo.”

“Anything for my favorite customer.” Angelo beamed, winked at John, and left as quickly as he’d appeared.

“Everything’s on the house,” Sherlock announced glibly. “I cleared his name of murder; Angelo won’t charge me a penny.”

“Is that what you do then? Barrister? I read your website but—”

“What did you think?” Sherlock interrupted, leaning forward and focusing his gaze on John.

“Er, well, it’s a bit over my head really. You said you could identify a person’s profession from details like their clothes or hands, and I’d have been doubtful if not for all those things you somehow knew about me.”

“I didn’t _know_ them,” Sherlock corrected, “I saw.

“I can read your military service in your haircut and the way you hold yourself. You’re tan in the face, but not above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not for pleasure. Combined with your past career that means deployment overseas- Afghanistan, as you said yourself earlier. Army, but army _doctor_ , that was harder to identify. It was the smell that narrowed down your current occupation. Few things linger like the sterility of the medical or laboratory industries, but the scent is fainter on you and carries no hint of latex. Your hands are weathered, but not dry the way constant exposure to hand sanitizer and repetitive scrubbing with strong soap causes. Several days ago you made a visit to a hospital or surgery, not long enough for a full shift. Ergo, job interview.”

John realized his jaw was hanging open and picked it back up off the table. This was supposed to be a first date. Gaping in shock might have worked earlier, but he needed to start putting in a little more work if he wanted to hold the attention of a bloke like Sherlock.

“How do you know I wasn’t just in for a check-up?”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though. You’ve only been back in London for a few months, not long enough to need your yearly physical. You don’t show signs of having been sick, and your shoulder hasn’t been paining you. The therapy appointments are inconvenient enough. Doubtful you’d visit anywhere that reminds you of your injury without cause. If the visit wasn’t personal in nature then it was for professional reasons.”

“And you knew I have a therapist how?”

“Psychosomatic limp. Of _course_ you’ve a therapist.”

John took a hasty sip of his wine to give himself time to think up a response that wasn’t just an awed compliment.

“Right, so you do this for a living. You’re a- a private detective...?”

“Close. I’m a _Consulting_ Detective. The police consult me when out of their depth. I invented the job, so I’m the only one in the world.”

The server appeared at that moment with their food, saving John from having to reply immediately. 

“If you’re on-call for the police, you must be good.”

“ _Very_ good,” Sherlock agreed. 

“So you must have seen loads of interesting crimes. Thefts and violence, murders.”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock nodded, his unusually-colored eyes fixed on John’s face,  
“and any sort of trouble you’d care to imagine.”

John licked his lips and reached for his wine, suddenly feeling a bit hot.

“So then you probably know something about—”

“—the serial suicide case?”

In answer to John’s startled look, Sherlock only smirked and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the biggest case the Met has on at the moment. Not hard to guess you’d heard of it. Finding the fourth body after the press conference has the media in an uproar.”

“Don’t tell me they’ve called you in on it.”

Sherlock grinned.

“How much do you know about the case?”

 

* * *

 

The coffee survived the rest of the trip to Bart’s where Molly was more than amenable to loaning Sherlock her phone and promising to set aside a nice forearm for him in future. It occurred to Sherlock as he was texting Jennifer Wilson’s number that Molly would have been a good candidate to “date”—her starstruck crush covering any multitude of sins when he inevitably slipped—but he didn’t want to sacrifice their current relationship in the fallout. It was useful to have a friend in Bart’s morgue, generally and for his role at the Yard. He’d still have that after “breaking up” with Molly, but it would be tediously awkward and Molly was bad enough already.

The situation with the army doctor was ideal, and Sherlock intended to make the most of it. He set to researching first date and dating etiquette in the cab and nearly threw his phone in furious affront when the first autosuggestion for his search query was “Captain John Watson.” 

Pompous, over-inflated Mycroft trying to be helpful, as per usual. Sherlock flipped off the nearest CCTV camera when he arrived at Baker Street and spent his first half hour at home typing things like “is it rude to eat your date’s meal as well as your own” into Google before his temper cooled.

Mycroft’s information was barely useful. He already knew the doctor’s surname from the back of his phone. His first name was hardly important—Sherlock needn’t ever use the man’s name so long as he had his number—and he’d learn it eventually. The blog he found provided little beyond confirming the desultory relationship with his therapist Sherlock had already guessed. He was interested to note in the comments that they shared Mike Stamford from Bart’s as a contact, but couldn’t see how that might be relevant and returned to his original task.

Having someone respond favorably to his deductions for once was pleasant, but Sherlock couldn’t rely on flukes if he hoped to impress Mummy. Their initial meeting had indirectly introduced The Work, convenient as any interpersonal relationship Sherlock initiated would need to recognize it. Once he had a better understanding of Doctor John Watson he’d be able to determine how to behave, how much of himself could be worked into the facade. This would be the same as any of the other personas and disguises he’d adopted for The Work. 

However, he found the literature on the nature of romantic relationships frustratingly imprecise, ranging anywhere from vague and patently untrue advice like “just be yourself” to point-by-point behavioral coaching tailored to achieve specific results. While the latter information was more helpful, and Sherlock bookmarked several interesting websites for later study, the nature of dating meant that there was nothing on how to indefinitely maintain a person’s romantic interest with the least modicum of effort necessary for the sake of impressing one’s family. Instead Sherlock threw himself into researching everything else and surfaced hours later with the realization that he was going to be late, something that his reading assured him was inadvisable on a first date.

As per instructions, Angelo had seated the doctor at the usual reserved table reserved. He twitched his lips into a smile and moved to take the empty chair facing the window as he greeted his “date.”

The man was nervous. _Again_. Sherlock had seen it in his body language from the other side of the window before he’d even entered. He was clearly comparing his past experiences in heterosexual dating against dating another man. Tedious.

Sherlock fought to keep the annoyance from his face, only mildly pleased at the attention being paid to his plum shirt. The praise John had voiced at their meeting had been satisfactory, but the rest of the conversation lacking. This relationship would grow boring quickly if John Watson was only capable of gaping or babbling confused questions in return to everything Sherlock said. One would think a doctor who’d worked in Afghanistan might have a bit more steel to his spine.

Thankfully, after a bit of a fumble on Sherlock’s part about how he’d learned John’s name that the doctor didn’t even question and a further demonstration of Sherlock’s abilities, they settled into a conversation about the latest victim in the serial suicide case that naturally segued into an account of Sherlock’s past cases.

John wasn’t the most scintillating of conversational partners, venturing guesses on the whos, whys, and hows that showed imagination with no particular reasoning ability and inevitably needed to be corrected, but Sherlock approved of his interest in The Work and his admiration for Sherlock’s deductive skills. He’d been assured by the Internet that first dates were an opportunity to “get to know one another,” and as he already knew everything of note about Doctor John Watson, late of the Royal Army Medical Corps, it made sense to talk about his own life instead. If he _had_ to maintain a relationship with a dull doctor going through a sexual identity crisis, at least the man in question appreciated Sherlock’s Work.

He’d already noted the night a success in his head when he saw the standing cab across the street. Sherlock wasn't worried over abandoning the date—John was too impressed by what he did for the police to hold it against him—but something about John’s open, waiting face made him pause.

John had shown interest in his casework, despite the frequently violent and gruesome aspects. An army doctor could hardly be squeamish, of course, but John's enthusiasm went beyond that. _Ah_ , and there was the steel. John _missed_ the danger, was eager to experience it vicariously through Sherlock. He re-ordered the probabilities in his head to find the data suggested a surprising conclusion.

“Earlier today I texted this address to the phone of the last victim, which was missing from the scene, and that cab’s just stopped, nobody getting in or out.”

John licked his lips. “Do you mean… You think that’s him? The murderer?” His eyes darted briefly sideways, but he never looked away from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock dipped his head in confirmation, took a chance.

“Could be dangerous.”

And to Sherlock's delight, John followed him willingly, cane and limp abandoned at the table with the remnants of their meal. He re-evaluated his estimation of Doctor Watson as a faux-partner while they chased the cab through winding London streets and up, over, and across rooftops. Perhaps the Internet was right and there was something to the “get-to-know-you” aspect of the First Date. The discovery that there might be more to John that initially observed made the failure of his lead more bearable.

“That was—” John gasped after they’d outrun the police— “absolutely ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” 

“More ridiculous than invading Afghanistan?”

John snorted and, to Sherlock’s surprise, began to laugh—less a laugh and more an undignified giggle. 

“That wasn’t just _me_.”

He snickered and caught Sherlock’s eye.

“‘ _Welcome to London_.’” 

John’s impression of Sherlock was halfhearted at best, but the warmth in his face made it obvious Sherlock was in on the joke, not the target of it. Sherlock could see the scene from John’s perspective: The non sequitur of a mad dash after a cab containing a pop-eyed Californian rather than a cold-blooded serial poisoner.

He chuckled in return and John smiled at him, blue eyes bright with amusement and adrenaline. This was not at all what he’d expected on agreeing to a date hours previous. He withdrew his mobile and began composing a text.

“Let’s go, John.”

John immediately started trotting after him. His easy acquiescence compared to the amount of badgering he’d have had to endure from any member of NSY to reach this point was refreshing. 

“Where are we going?”

“Baker Street.” 

“Are we still following the murderer?”

“No, that lead was a long shot anyway. I live at two twenty-one and I need to go back over the case. That, and I have a point to make.”

John grew silent but his presence remained at Sherlock’s back. Had he realized? Sherlock resisted the urge to look, lest he make John even more self-conscious, and clenched his hand around his phone. Time for his text to reach Angelo plus the current activity level of the restaurant at this hour on a weekday night versus his and John’s current location and traveling speed placed Angelo’s ETA at approximately—

Sherlock turned onto Baker Street and stopped, John running into his back with a small gasp before jerking away. He narrowed his eyes at the police cars parked across from 221, part of his attention on John’s recoil.

“That’s…” 

“My flat, yes.” 

He paused with his keys in the lock, registering the expected visitor in his peripheral vision.

“And here’s Angelo.” 

He unlocked the door while John was gaping, waiting on the step to watch the exchange.

“Doctor Watson, you forgot your cane.”

John’s mouth opened and closed. Taking the cane, he looked at Sherlock.

“He texted me,” Angelo answered before John could ask. He held up the takeaway bag in his other hand. “And _you_ forgot your leftovers, Sherlock.”

The smile Sherlock was wearing at the doctor’s expense turned instantly into a scowl. Angelo winked and gestured with the bag until John accepted it.

“For later.”

“Er, thanks. Thank you.”

John was blushing and wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock glared at Angelo. He’d hoped the point with the cane would have been enough to overcome _this_ brand of self-consciousness until Angelo had ruined everything. Huffing, he opened the door wide and ushered John in with a hand on the small of his back.

“Yes, _thank you_ , Angelo.”

“Oh, Sherlock!”

Mrs. Hudson popped out of the flat at the sound of the door closing, her mouth snapping shut when she noticed John and the way Sherlock had one arm curved around the man’s back.

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson. John, this is my landlady Mrs. Hudson.”

The way she looked over John as they shook hands was not at all subtle. John shifted nervously on his feet and pulled out of Sherlock’s grasp.

“Sherlock is a lovely young man,” she beamed. “He helped me out of a spot of trouble with my late husband. I’m so pleased to see him finally bringing home a date.”

Before she could spook John further Sherlock stepped forward to take advantage of her current sentimentality. Mrs. Hudson practically flew into his arms.

“A _doctor_ , Sherlock,” she whispered into his chest, squeezing him once before letting go.

“This is just what you’ve needed, dear. I hate to think of you lonely up there.”

“Yes, speaking of- Where are they, Mrs. Hudson?”

The excitement shifted to worry, her eyes darting towards John, and that was all the confirmation Sherlock needed. There hadn’t been another- if Lestrade had been waiting for him the sound of voices would have attracted his attention immediately. No body meant they’d remembered the case and come to find it, which meant a “drugs bust” to search his flat. John was a doctor with an alcoholic brother; the last thing he’d want would be a romantic entanglement with a former junkie.

“Upstairs. I didn’t want to let them in with you gone, you understand, but—”

“Not now, Mrs. Hudson!”

Lestrade hardly batted an eyelash when Sherlock burst through the sitting room door.

“ _What_ have I told you about withholding evidence, Sherlock?” 

“I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No, _Anderson’s_ my sniffer dog.”

The man in question poked his head out of the kitchen with an expression of malicious glee and Sherlock turned on Lestrade, about to upbraid him for letting _Anderson_ of all incompetents into his flat, but Lestrade wasn’t looking at him.

“Who’s this?” 

Several responses ran through Sherlock’s head. John was already skittish after the effusiveness of Angelo and Mrs. Hudson. The negative reactions of the Yarders would send him fleeing for cover and end their fledgling relationship before it could even start. As Sherlock was just considering how Doctor Watson might make a good assistant with proper training, this was unacceptable.

“A friend of mine, Doctor John Watson, late of the Royal Army Medical Corps.”

Several more Yarders’ heads popped out of the kitchen.

“ _You_ have a friend?”

Sherlock gestured imperiously to the room at large.

“Doctor Watson, may I present the Met’s finest.”

“Er, hello.”

John nodded affably at the assembled officers staring at him, eyebrows rising when he saw Lestrade.

“Isn’t that-?”

Thankfully John had more sense than to mention to Lestrade that Sherlock had borrowed one of his badges.

“Detective Inspector Gary Lestrade.” He ignored Lestrade’s automatic correction. “My liaison at New Scotland Yard.”

“Right, Sherlock. _Liaison_. As in, we’re supposed to work together. In fact, we’ve found Rachel.”

“Who is she?” 

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter. She was stillborn.”

“Stillborn.” Sherlock’s excitement at the prospect of new information vanished and he began to pace. “That’s not right… There _must_ be a connection. Why would she do that?”

“Maybe…” John stopped talking when he realized everyone had turned to look at him, glancing at Sherlock before finishing his thought. “Maybe he used the death of her daughter to make her take the poison somehow.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade grumbled, “you can’t share details from a current investigation with your friends!” 

Ignoring Lestrade’s protests, Sherlock completed another circuit and rounded on John.

“If it was you, if you were dying, what would you say in your last few seconds?”

John swallowed and tilted his head back to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“Please, God, let me live.”

He blinked, about to tell John that his suggestion was hardly conducive, but Mrs. Hudson interrupted by appearing in the sitting room doorway.

“Sherlock, didn’t you hear the bell? Your taxi’s here.”

“Busy, Mrs. Hudson. Go away.” 

He started pacing again, dictating his thoughts aloud as he walked. John had been on the battlefield. John had nearly died, but he hadn’t been _murdered_. The two situations were hardly analogous. Jennifer Wilson had been clever with her serial affairs, she would have been clever in this as well. What had the message _meant_ , what had she been trying to say?

“What about the taxi?” 

“Shut _up_!”

Mrs. Hudson jumped and shut up about the taxi.

“Anderson, turn around. Your face is disruptive to logical thought. The rest of you shut up. Don’t talk to me, don’t talk to each other, don’t even think.” 

For one blissful second he was alone, and then everyone started breathing again and the silence was ruined, but the one second had been enough. Clever Jennifer Wilson, planting the phone on her murderer, using her blood to leave a clue to locate him. ‘Rachel’ hadn’t been a _name_ at all. Blank faces greeted his declaration and Sherlock scoffed in disgust.

“John—”

He turned to deliver his instructions, but John was gone.

“Left,” Lestrade offered. “Said he’d text you later and good luck with the case.”

Sherlock was momentarily stymied, but he retrieved the luggage tag himself and brought it to his laptop, smacking Anderson’s hand away when he dared reach for it. John had been so impressed hearing about the cases and had followed without complaint despite his reservations. He would have been thrilled to see Sherlock’s deductions happen in real time and witness the conclusion of the case. Sherlock could have leveraged that enthusiasm in their relationship, but there would be other chances.

On screen a map began zooming in on the current location of the phone. Sherlock frowned as he realized it was moving, snapping instructions at Lestrade to ready for pursuit. They might just catch it. It was close, currently traveling down Baker Street—

“Sherlock, dear.” Mrs. Hudson was at the top of the stairs again. “Did you have to be so rude to poor Doctor Watson? Sending a man off in a cab like that is no way to end a—” she hesitated, glancing around the flat— “an evening.”

He registered the word “cab” like a drop of water falling into an over-full bucket, memories rippling outwards before spilling over the edges. He remembered his explanation of the case to John, the excitement and suspicion when the taxi pulled up outside Angelo’s and didn’t move, the annoyance at finding an over-cooked Californian in the back seat. The icon on his laptop left Baker Street.

Sherlock looked up at Mrs. Hudson fretting on the doorway. Everyone froze and Mycroft stepped nimbly around the woman as if he wasn’t so large he could barely fit through the door when it was empty.

“Goodness, Sherlock,” his voice held more sarcasm than the real Mycroft allowed himself, “whatever will Mummy say about this?”

He came up behind Sherlock to look at the paused icon on screen..

“You sent one of your admirers to prison when you were at university, but sending Doctor Watson to his death is a bit much, wouldn’t you agree?

“He enjoyed himself, you know. He might have followed you anywhere if you had treated him a little more carefully. It has been how many years, and you still have not learned to be gentle with your toys.”

Sherlock grit his teeth and scowled at the screen, but the Mycroft in his head was right. Other people with intellects vastly inferior to his own managed to go on dates every day without sending their partners off at the end of the night in taxis driven by murderous cabbies. 

Worse than the knowledge of how unobservant he’d been, worse even than the fear of what the real Mycroft would say, and their parents after Mycroft opened his gargantuan mouth, was the fact that’d he’d _liked_ John. Not romantically, of course, but the doctor had intrigued him. It was so rare to find someone with depths beyond what Sherlock could deduce in a single glance. 

Mycroft stared at the frozen on-screen map.

“He always takes them to empty buildings, but there are far too many vacant construction sites and poorly-guarded offices in London to predict where he will go. Best catch him, dear brother. I shudder to think what will happen to the unfortunate Doctor Watson if you don’t.” 

Mycroft straightened with a pleasant smile and made his way back to the sitting room door. He quirked an eyebrow and vanished around Mrs. Hudson as sound filtered back in and the world started moving again. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you feeling well?”

“Mrs. Hudson, you’re right.”

“Wait, Sherlock, what about-?”

He stood up without looking at the laptop to avoid attracting Lestrade’s attention. They’d notice the still-open tracker after he’d left, but that couldn’t be helped. It wouldn’t matter if they followed him, but he couldn’t risk being bogged down by their inane questions when every second brought John closer to death.

“I have to go find John. That was no way to treat a friend.”

If Mrs. Hudson was going to have a heart attack from over-excitement, in a flat surrounded by police officers was the time to do so. She gripped his arm briefly in passing, but didn’t try to stop him. Sherlock ignored Lestrade’s furious protests as he galloped down the stairs, mobile already in hand to track Jennifer Wilson’s phone.

 

* * *

 

John was over the moon, adrenaline singing a familiar and much-missed siren song in his blood, up until Sherlock told him they were going to his flat and, more ominously, that he had “a point to make.”

Two conflicting voices took up residence in his head. One of them insisted that it was early, but if Sherlock wanted to declare an end to the evening John could well walk him home. The other adamantly did not want the night to be over, wanted the chase to go on so he could keep feeling this way. They were in agreement on one thing. It had been a bloody amazing date, but it might be the only one he ever had if Sherlock invited him up for coffee and John said no because he wasn’t ready.

What was the protocol for this situation? If Sherlock were a woman he’d know what to do, what words to say to defuse into a peck on the cheek to indicate interest in something long-term, a desire to wait and see what happened. Then again, if Sherlock were a woman would John be debating this right now?

The thought gave him pause and he was turning it over in his head when Sherlock stopped abruptly in front of him and John ran into his back.

Even through the thick wool of his coat John could feel his warmth, the solidity of his muscles. John might have completely missed the presence of the police cars if Sherlock hadn’t drawn attention to them, and he was hardly any more coherent when his forgotten cane made a surprising reappearance. 

He was drowning in amazement all over again at the realization that not only had Sherlock taken him on a fantastic date, he’d also cured John’s limp at the same time, when Angelo winked and John remembered he was standing on Sherlock’s front step undecided on how to end the date without losing Sherlock’s interest or getting himself into more than he could handle.

Sherlock’s hand on his back evoked mixed emotions. It was strange and different to be the recipient of the gesture instead of the source, but for a proprietary gesture it was far less smothering than having had girlfriends drape themselves over him in the past. John had only a few seconds to examine his response before being introduced to Sherlock’s landlady, an older woman who treated Sherlock with all the affectionate aplomb of a mother on the occasion of her son’s first date.

Paradoxically her response put him back on even ground. His anxiety had nothing to do with what was between Sherlock’s legs. Meeting the family too soon in the relationship was always awkward, and Mrs. Hudson’s assumptions implied something completely different from Angelo’s innuendo.

It was a relief to be reminded that the police were in residence, something he’d completely forgotten in the wake of his own confused feelings. No reason to worry about after-date etiquette if Sherlock had visitors, but the relief was short-lived. Sherlock introduced him not as a date, but as a _friend_ and John’s insecurities came flooding back in a rush.

John replayed Angelo’s and Mrs. Hudson’s reactions to his presence and compared them to the obvious skepticism of Sherlock’s colleagues from the Met. They’d been enthusiastic but equally skeptical in their own way, acting as if Sherlock on a date was a rare occurrence. Suddenly John had an answer for why a bloke who looked and spoke like Sherlock Holmes might want to go out with him.

What was the first thing Sherlock had said to him? That he worked unpredictable hours and might not always be available.

He’d been dumped before, and probably because of the work he did with the police judging by their incredulity at the appearance of someone who Sherlock called friend. With that thought came another, even worse. Sherlock _knew_.

He had to know. A man who could read John’s military career in his haircut and his tan lines, and his therapist from his limp must have deduced his sexual identity crisis, but he’d agreed to a date anyway. He’d probably seen John’s embarrassment after Angelo and Mrs. Hudson and taken pity on him. John was ashamed.

He ventured a comment and answered Sherlock’s pointed question thinking guiltily that maybe he could help, but realized how misguided that was when Sherlock bellowed for silence. This was the consulting detective, not John’s date, and right now he was in the way, detracting from Sherlock’s brilliance. In fact, that was probably what the taxi was for. He’d summoned Angelo with John’s cane without him noticing. As soon as he realized the police needed him Sherlock had called a cab, knowing the date was over and making sure John could get home.

The driver confirmed that he was waiting for Sherlock. John nodded and got in, giving his address and answering whatever the cabbie said in reply with a vague hum. He was loath to call the date a mistake because he’d had such a good time, but he hadn’t been fair to Sherlock.

It took John an embarrassingly long time to realize he had no idea where the taxi was going.

“Excuse me.” He rapped on the divider to get the cabbie’s attention. “Where are you going? Look, if you’re trying to overcharge me...”

The cabbie caught his eye in the rearview mirror, smile pleasant.

“You’re not Mr. Sherlock ‘olmes, are you?”

“What?”

“I said ‘Taxi for Sherlock ‘olmes,’ and you said ‘yes.’”

“Well, yeah, he called for the cab, but—” 

“Didn’t think you looked smart enough to be ‘olmes, but you were with ‘im earlier and I thought maybe that was a trick, y’see? Using someone else as cover would be clever, and I was warned ‘olmes would be clever.” 

John ignored the insult to his looks as the cabbie continued babbling, trepidation curdling low in his gut.

“Right, that’s it. Pull over. Now.”

“Sorry, Mister.” He was still smiling, no change at all to the expression. “If I can’t ‘ave ‘olmes, I’ll ‘ave to settle for you. Nothing personal, but I’ve a quota to fill.”

He took one hand from the wheel, reaching down behind the divider where John couldn’t see, and when he lifted the hand again he was holding a gun.

Like electricity switching over to a backup generator following a power surge, John’s military instincts came online in a flickering rush. With the triggering of his fight-or-flight instincts his growing suspicions solidified into certainty. _This_ was Sherlock’s serial suicide murderer. Not the passenger, but the cabbie. He ran through the case in his head, narrated in Sherlock’s confident baritone. 

Poison taken at gunpoint; likely a coward unused or unwilling to actually shoot his firearm. Current position as driver and one-handed grip suggested distraction; he’d need to be very skilled to hit John from his position in the front seat and through the divider screen. They weren’t travelling very fast and the kerb was immediately to John’s left; the chances of surviving if he threw himself out right now were high.

_But—_

Could he risk saving himself if it meant the cabbie claiming twice as many victims as he’d already poisoned in a traffic accident? And, asked another part of him, could he risk letting Sherlock’s suspect escape without trying to stop him? John stared at the gun, reassessing. All the victims had been found in empty buildings, no evidence of anyone else present. The murderer had obviously concealed his presence; there was no telling if he had an accomplice. That might be a problem, but John’s instincts insisted that he could handle the cabbie, even after his invalidation. When the cab stopped he’d have an opportunity to go for the gun—

There was something wrong with the gun. The streetlights flashing through the window made getting a clear look difficult, but- The way the man held it was wrong. There wasn’t enough tension in his wrist to support its weight, grip too loose, no accounting for recoil. John strained his eyes, forcing himself to focus each time light flashed through the cab. Shadows didn’t fall the right way over the surface; lines were missing where there should have been space, and several of what should have been moving parts looked fused to the gun.

A fake gun. Clearly none of the other victims had been familiar enough with firearms to spot the inconsistencies. Or maybe, John thought grimly, they’d been too scared to notice. And just like that he decided to stay and see what happened. A coward: Who else would dare force four people to poison themselves with a fake gun?

The taxi came to a stop and the cabbie got out, opening the passenger door and gesturing John out with the gun, standing too far away for John to lunge without risking him bolting.

“Right this way, Mister. And lemme ‘ave your mobile while you’re at it. I won’t be making that mistake again.”

John followed the instructions into one of an identical pair of buildings, grimacing when the gun was nudged between his shoulders. If he hadn’t seen it and realized it was fake he might have been convinced by the deceptive solidity of it poking at his back.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Not too far, not too far. Just ‘ere- open this one.”

John walked into a large, empty classroom and turned to face his kidnapper for the first time. The cabbie came in after him, pulling the door shut.

“Take a seat.”

John remained standing.

“It’s up to you,” the cabbie shrugged, “mite more noble to be found sitting up than on the floor.”

“So this is what you do, is it? Kidnap people at gunpoint and force them to poison themselves?”

“Course not. I don’t _force_ them. I just talk to them and then I give them a choice.” 

He reached into a pocket and emerged with a small clear bottle, a single pill rattling inside. John tensed when he came forward to set the bottle on a table, watched as he pulled out another seemingly-identical bottle and placed it next to the first.

“They’re both poison, only you have the antidote.”

“Now where would be the fun in that? One’s safe and the other isn’t. You pick one and I’ll take the other.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you? You’ve killed four people!”

“I ‘aven’t killed anyone though, ‘ave I? Just spoken to them, and then they killed themselves.”

John swallowed back his fury and walked over to the table, fingering one of the bottles as if he was contemplating actually taking a pill as he inched closer. 

“Why are you doing this? You said you had a ‘quota.’ Is this just some sick way for you to get off?” 

“That’s not ‘ow this game is played.” The cabbie waggled his gun chidingly. “But I suppose you ‘eard all about it from Mr. ‘olmes, did you? Well, I’ll tell you, since you won’t live to tell _‘im_. I’ve a sponsor. There’s money in murder, if you know where to look.”

John clenched his jaw and glared at the little pills in their transparent bottles. Four people dead because some bloody unhinged bastard paid to have them killed.

With a sudden lunge that put him within arm's length of the cabbie, he knocked both bottles hurtling from the table.

“Yeah? And what if I don’t want to play your ‘game?’”

Very calmly, the cabbie raised the gun and pointed it at John.

“You can pick up one of those pills, or I can shoot you in the ‘ead.”

John grinned, hands balling into fists at his sides.

“Word of advice, mate: Don’t threaten an army doctor with a fake gun.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock bolted from the taxi before it had completely stopped, flinging bills into the open passenger door as he went. The cab that had taken John was vacant and dark, but he wasted a few seconds peering into the interior with his phone light for confirmation. John’s cane and the takeaway were abandoned in the backseat, and in the front- a pink mobile sitting by the driver’s seat. 

He hesitated at the identical buildings, but chose one and hurried over, peering to examine the door handle in the scant light. There was a glint of skin oils on the metal, fresh enough to indicate recent passage and consistent with his working theory that John was likely being coerced at gunpoint, which would place him in front of his kidnapper. Unfortunately, there was no easy way to find the exact room in the absence of any recent rains or John having trod in any recognizable sediment during their evening together. Sherlock backtracked to the stairs when he heard the sound of a cleaning trolley at the end of the hall, ascending a floor and peering into every lit classroom he passed. 

The very last door was slightly cracked. Sherlock didn’t bother looking in to gauge the situation, only flung himself inside hoping a distraction might be enough to save John, if it wasn’t already too late—

“ _John!_ ”

And nearly barrelled into Captain John Watson, stance firm as he aimed a gun at Sherlock’s face.

It was hard to say who was more shocked, but John recovered first and lowered the gun.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Are you all right? Did you call the police?”

For one disconcerting second Sherlock had no idea what was going on, but then he looked away from John’s concerned expression and the details fell into place.

The murderous cabbie was on the ground, a growing bruise on his jaw evidence of how John had incapacitated him. John’s mobile and an unfamiliar wallet lay on the floor beside him. His legs were tied with scraps of John’s vest, as evidenced by the scattered remains of fabric. John had been in the process of restraining the murderer when he’d heard Sherlock’s running footsteps.

“Confessed to everything,” John said, nodding at the unconscious man. “He said it was a game. Two pills and he’d take whichever one they didn’t, but I bet he had it rigged somehow. Their choice was to take a pill or he’d shoot them. ”

“John, are you-” Sherlock looked over John’s body, but couldn’t find any sign of violence to explain how he’d seized the gun.

“Oh, this?”

John laughed and held up the gun, pointing it at the window as he pulled the trigger. A little flame popped out of the end. _Fake_ gun, he realized. Obvious. He’d been too distracted with John’s safety to notice the signs when it was right in front of his nose. Dull.

“None of the victims realized.” John scowled and set the disguised lighter on a desk. “Sorry for that, earlier. I didn’t know it was you, and he said he had an accomplice. I thought I might be able to buy some time bluffing.”

Sherlock’s attention sharpened.

“An accomplice? There was someone else?”

“Not exactly. He said he had a sponsor. Someone was _paying_ him to kill all those people! Can you believe it?” 

Sherlock bent to examine the unconscious cabbie, looking him over carefully before voicing his conclusion.

“The money was to take care of his children, I expect. He’s sick with something, a chronic condition, perhaps terminal. That’s why he was willing to gamble with his life.” 

“Bloody hell,” John breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing, you know that? I just thought he was a coward, forcing those poor people to kill themselves thinking they had a chance when he was cheating.”

“I never said he wasn’t,” Sherlock said, abruptly puzzled but not sure by what. “There are ways of planting subliminal messages using gestures and conversational cues.”

John knelt and retrieved the wallet and his phone.

“Name’s Jefferson Hope. Anyone you recognize?” 

Sherlock shook his head and accepted the wallet, still trying to identify what was odd about the situation as he looked over the contents.

“Prescriptions for nimodipine and labetalol,” he noted, “used for-” 

“Blood pressure control,” John agreed. “And sometimes for migraines. I’d need more information to go on.”

He wrinkled his nose at the unconscious cabbie.

“Sorry, when did you say the police are coming?”

“Five minutes.”

If they weren't there by then Sherlock would call them himself; Lestrade would deserve the verbal evisceration.

John sighed and sat down on a table. In the ensuing silence Sherlock went over the case in his mind, charting its progression before his involvement, and then including the point John entered the picture. What was it? The picture on the taxi’s dashboard, the contents of the wallet- Why did he feel as if there was a loose end somewhere? An accomplice- a _sponsor_ \- Had there been a name?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden laugh. John was looking at him, something that could only be delight dancing in his eyes.

“Are all of your dates this exciting?” 

“No,” then unbidden and before he could stop himself: “You’re special.”

John laughed again.

“Hope that doesn’t mean I’m going to get kidnapped every time we go out.”

The answer he was searching for snapped into focus so quickly it left him reeling. _John wasn’t upset_.

The young man he'd sent to prison had been furious, and he'd only wanted to fuck Sherlock, probably just the once. Sherlock had been uninterested, content to ignore him until he'd joined a scheme selling test questions, whereupon one comment from Sherlock before witnesses had accomplished what weeks of disregard hadn't and turned him from an object of lust to one of hatred.

His other "relationships," if the term could be applied, were hardly better though he'd avoided sending anyone else to prison by simply not getting involved with criminals. The first and only time he'd tried for something more than a mutually beneficial arrangement had ended when it became clear that dating and drugs were incompatible and Sherlock had chosen the cocaine. 

With such a stellar track record he'd fully expected John to end their acquaintance the moment he was freed. Realistically, saving John was only meant to reassure Mummy and Mycroft that he wasn’t so incapable of normal human interaction as to get his date kidnapped and poisoned. A second date was extremely unlikely.

John _was_ special, for all that Sherlock hadn’t intended to voice his conclusion aloud.

What had he said when Sherlock burst into the room? First, concern for Sherlock’s health even though _he_ had been in the most danger. Then, an inquiry about the police, repeated out of desire to see the cabbie handed over to the proper authorities.

John Watson was a man with a strong moral principle. But hadn’t he already known that? Queen and Country and all that rot. He’d been impressed at the work Sherlock did for the police, enough not to question why Sherlock was multi-tasking on their date, but it wasn’t mere hero worship. John wasn’t opposed to taking the law into his own hands: chasing after the taxi, staying with the cabbie even though he’d known the gun was fake.

Soldier and doctor. Protective instincts. An alcoholic brother with a ruined marriage. Accepted a push to question his sexuality partly to promote sibling harmony. This man, if approached correctly, would be overwhelmingly loyal. What could Sherlock do to take advantage of this nature? Brilliance, danger- John was attracted to Sherlock’s genius, appreciated his Work. He would continue their relationship as long as Sherlock supplied his adrenaline fix.

Before Sherlock could come up with a response—useful, as Sherlock wasn’t sure he should say that it would be advantageous for John to be kidnapped at their meetings, provided the kidnapping was like this one in which John was never in any real danger, exercised his soldierly instincts, and satisfied his addiction to danger all while taking a serial murderer off the streets—there was a cough from the direction of the floor.

Jefferson Hope had just rolled from the recovery position onto his back, discovering his feet were tied in the process. He stilled, eyes darting to John before fixing on Sherlock.

“Sherlock ‘olmes. I was expecting you. I ‘eard you were a proper genius, but you’re not, are you?” 

The criminals Sherlock reduced to the state Jefferson Hope was currently in called him any number of things, but they were usually cursing his intelligence, not spurning it. Sherlock frowned. 

“And you are, I suppose. A proper genius who let himself be caught.”

The cabbie ignored his sarcasm.

“See when I saw ‘im I thought at first ‘e was you, or maybe you were both in it together. But when you were chasing the cab earlier you didn’t know it was _me_ you were after. No one ever thinks about the cabbie. Even to you I was just the back of an ‘ead.

“I could ‘ave ‘ad your friend ‘ere, and you wouldn’t ‘ave even known. It’s a real disappointment after being told about your website.”

“Who told you? Was it your sponsor?”

“I was expecting better, to be ‘onest. Everyone’s so stupid- even you.”

He coughed again, harder this time, raising a hand to his mouth as his head jerked with the force. Sherlock was on the cusp of ordering John to find some water— _something_ Hope could drink to clear his airway and prime him for questioning—when Hope stopped coughing, hand falling away to reveal a sickly grin.

The palm of his hand was covered in small cuts, slivers of glass glinting in several.

“No one says the name, and neither will I. It’s five times now I’ve played for what I wanted. Maybe God just loves me.”

There was an indrawn gasp behind him—John, slower on the uptake, realizing what was happening.

“ _Sherlock_ , the pill…!”

John was beside him suddenly, both hands prying Hope’s jaws apart as if he could reach in and pull the poison capsule out, but there was no _time_ \- How long until the poison took effect? Sherlock batted John away and grabbed Hope’s face.

“Who was it? I want the name.”

Hope’s eyes were glazed; he was having trouble focusing. Sherlock shook him hard, pressing in until their foreheads nearly touched.

“The government will seize that money. Your children will never see a cent. You’ve done all of this for _nothing!_ Give me a name!” 

Hope was gasping for air. Spittle flecked Sherlock’s face, but he didn’t care, only tightened his grip.

“The _NAME!_ ”

“ _MORIARTY!_ ” Hope finally screamed, throwing off Sherlock’s hold as he started writhing, clawing at his own throat and chest in agony.

Sherlock was abruptly yanked backwards and away from Hope’s flailing limbs. He watched until Hope went still, only aware that John’s hand had been pressed against the back of his neck where it was clenched in his coat collar after John let go to check Hope’s pulse.

“Dead.” He said as if there was any doubt after that display, and, in a surprising show of compassion from someone whose disgust for Hope’s activities had been obvious, closed the dead man’s eyes.

In the silence Sherlock looked at him. John appeared neither disgusted nor upset, and his hand—the same one he’d used to take Hope’s nonexistent pulse—was steady.

“I can assure you I’ve never once had a date end like this.”

And John laughed.

“Pulled out all the stops for me, did you?” 

John, he realized suddenly, was _flirting_ with him while Jefferson Hope’s corpse cooled on the floor beside them. Sherlock had never believed in fate or destiny or any other nonsense, but John was _marvelous_. He might actually take the effort to let John down gently when the time came. 

Of course that was when Lestrade and his team showed up, late as always. Sherlock put aside the delightful puzzle of John Watson in favor of snapping at Lestrade for his tardiness. He eventually consented to recount what the DI had missed when Lestrade began grumbling about his earlier abrupt departure, gratified that John didn’t contest his omitting Moriarty’s name from the account. Then the paramedics arrived and they were separated, John to give his statement and be checked over, which for some reason necessitated a lurid orange blanket.

Sherlock was impatient for the whole thing to be over so he could start looking into the shadowy figure of Moriarty, and because Sally Donovan had been deputized to take John’s statement after he was cleared. As Sally was the most likely person on the force to warn John away—Anderson being too idiotic to form a compelling argument—he was eager to separate them before any damage was done.

“You- Er. You must be glad he’s all right.”

Sherlock, who’d been going over his account of events on automatic as he snuck glances at Donovan and John and tried to deduce their conversation, startled at Lestrade’s tone.

“What?”

“John, I mean. I’ve never seen you as concerned over anyone as you were over him. He must mean a lot to you as a… friend.”

Lestrade looked cautiously optimistic. Sherlock stared. For all his remarks to the contrary Lestrade was reasonably intelligent. It seemed he’d considered the events of the evening and come up with something resembling the truth.

“Yes well,” Sherlock said briskly to discourage any prying questions, “I’m not exactly flush with friends, am I? Are we done here?" 

“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded. “Yeah, we’re good. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

The way his lips kept fighting a smile was off-putting. Sherlock swept away, pleased when Sally shot him a typically vitriolic glare, gave John one last parting comment, and scarpered off to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping. John, to Sherlock’s relief, barely acknowledged her, greeting Sherlock’s arrival with a small smile that told him John hadn’t listed to a word she’d said. 

“This whole thing has been a dreadful business, really. Just dreadful.”

He nodded his head at the assembled people, also aware of Sally’s transparent attempt at subterfuge going by his mild tone and conversational opener.

“What’s dreadful is this blanket. As if you haven’t seen worse deaths over the course of your career.”

Emboldened by his desire to thumb his nose at Sally’s disapproval, Sherlock leaned forward and brushed the orange blanket from John’s shoulders. John looked up at him in surprise, but didn’t pull away, the tip of his tongue flicking over his lips as Sherlock straightened.

“Right. Right, yeah. And he wasn’t a very nice man, was he?”

“Not particularly, no.” Sherlock agreed, distracted by a flash of movement on his periphery.

“Frankly, he was a bloody awful cabbie. This is nowhere _near_ where I live, and he took my cane!”

Despite the sleek black car that had just parked Sherlock couldn’t resist a chuckle.

“And your takeaway,” he added, offering John a hand up. “After all the effort Angelo made bringing it to you.” 

John giggled and immediately tried to stop himself, with little success.

“Stop it! This is a crime scene! We can’t be laughing at a crime scene!”

Beyond John’s shoulder Sherlock saw Mycroft emerge from his car. He caught Sherlock’s eye and raised an imperious eyebrow. It was one thing for Mycroft to manipulate Sherlock’s internet search results. It was another for him to threaten his heavy-handed nosiness in person. 

Sherlock summoned the smile he’d been wearing _before_ Mycroft and his bloated ego appeared, and settled a hand on John’s back. Mycroft’s smirk grew disgustingly smug, but he took the hint and turned towards where Lestrade was standing. He also had the pleasure of seeing Sally’s mouth fall open in disbelief, too shocked to affect inattention.

“Are you hungry?”

John looked at him, the laughter he’d managed to quiet still flashing in his eyes, and didn’t pull away.

“Starving.”

“There’s a good Chinese on Baker Street that stays open late. Did you know you can always tell a good Chinese…”

 

* * *

 

When John finally arrived home he was stuffed to the gills with dim sum and too flushed to even think about sleep, despite having planned to go to the surgery early the next morning. He reached for his laptop in a flash of sudden inspiration and logged onto his blog, clicking through until he’d opened a new entry. Impulsively he typed in “Today I had a date.” and hit publish, refreshing his browser with smug satisfaction that maybe this would convince Ella he was finally moving on with his life and get her off his back.

There was one new comment. Harry had replied with a single exclamation point and a moving picture of Kermit the frog waving his arms back and forth in excitement.

Even the day before a comment from her on his blog would have evoked annoyance at what he’d view as a push for a phone call that would inevitably end in an argument.

This time John was too happy to be anything but amused that Harry had been waiting for some hint over how the date had gone. He clicked the link to reply, typed in “Show me how to put pictures in tomorrow, yeah?” and logged off.

Tomorrow he’d meet with Sarah at the surgery, touch base with Harry. He hadn’t forgotten how he’d felt in the cab before realizing he was being kidnapped, just pushed those concerns aside in the rush of everything else. He’d need to re-examine those thoughts again soon, but not tonight. 

Tomorrow, definitely.


	3. Advice Backfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went over my movie transcript in case there was anything usable for the outline and... I'd just like to thank anyone who's made it this far for not seeing a godawful movie like How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days in the tags and running immediately in the opposite direction.
> 
> I promise when I started this I was only thinking "How great would it be if Sherlock was crap at even pretend dating and John was STILL perfect for him?"

“No.”

John checked the phone display to make sure he hadn’t misdialed.

“What?”

“You’re calling because you’re spooked and want to call it off, and I’m saying you can’t.”

John stared at his beige walls in confusion, suddenly wrong-footed.

“I- Harry, how did you—?”

“Because I  _ know you _ , John.” He could actually sense her roll her eyes through the connection.

“You had a good time last night, enough that you posted about it on your blog where you know Ella will see it and ask about it. Except you’re calling me at—” a pause, the shuffle of fabric— “arse o’clock in the morning hoping I’d still be asleep. Classic Watson avoidance technique to make up your mind about something you know is stupid and call when the other person can’t point out how daft you’re being.”

More shuffling over the line, followed by the clink of dishware and a low self-deprecating laugh.

“Better than email, at least. That worked well for me when you were in Afghanistan.”

Neither spoke for a few moments as Harry continued her morning and John tried to recall the argument he’d constructed for Harry’s ansaphone.

“How were you going to tell Mr. Posh? Bloke like that won’t be satisfied with a vague text. He’d want to know the reason.”

“I  _ had _ a reason.” He kept talking over her scoff, spurred to get the words out before she could interrupt and scatter them again. “No, listen, Harry, I did. You remember his website, right, the 'Science of Deduction?' He didn’t just deduce my limp, he deduced  _ me _ . About me asking him out, I mean.”

Harry considered his stumbling explanation.

“He said that, at dinner?”

“Well, no.” John flushed, ashamed at his memories of the previous night. “But it was obvious he knew.”

“So what’s the problem? He knows and still wants to see you, yeah? Seems like a win-win to me.”

“But- Harry, that’s-”

John paused to collect his thoughts, so unquestionably solid the night before, but difficult to grasp now as he tried to put them into words.

“He deserves better.”

Because five minutes with Sherlock Holmes had been enough to convince him that the other man was utterly unique, extraordinary in a way John had never encountered before and probably never would again. And he deserved someone capable of acknowledging his relationship, someone who wasn’t intimidated by his attraction to him and could embrace it without having to puzzle through what he were comfortable doing.

“That’s bollocks, John.”

John didn’t get to the bit about Sherlock likely having agreed because circumstances had forced him to lower his standards, cut off by Harry’s immediate denial before he could figure out how to explain.

“You’re my brother and I’ll deck anyone, posh or not, who says you’re not worth it.”

Not counting what she’d told him the previous day about not being a coward, that was probably the nicest thing Harry had said about him since before he’d gone to war.

“That’s not- Sherlock didn’t say that.”

“Right, yeah, no, he better not have.” Harry took a deep breath, her voice less heated when she spoke next.

“You should give yourself more credit, John. I know I kind of pressed this on you, and I’m sorry that I was too excited with you agreeing with me to think this through and give you more time. But don’t think I don’t know how brave you’re being. Because I do know. And you are—really brave.”

A large part of why their sibling meetings were always so petulant was because they were both so bloody bad with words. John had regrets about their relationship and they didn’t start with how he’d handled her divorce, but there were so many old wounds heaped on each other at this point that he wasn’t sure he could apologize if he tried. Except, well, they’d both agreed to try for this ridiculous bet, hadn’t they?

“Harry, I—”

She gave a misty laugh when he paused, hearing the words though he didn’t finish.

“Yeah, me too, John.”

He swallowed and looked at his neatly made bed, the spartan walls, the tiny kitchen, anything that might provide a distraction, but the bland setting gave little relief from the weight of their conversation.

“Okay,” Harry breathed, then said it again as if repetition could make it stick. “Okay. Look, let me just say one thing and I’ll be done. You said you think he knows, and if you think so then, well, you’d know better than me. But that means he said yes anyway, and you have to trust that. If you go into this without respecting the other person’s decisions you’re doomed to fail from the start.”

Harry was speaking from experience and they both knew it. John thought even without everything else that someone like Sherlock wasn’t meant for someone like him, but he recognized the wisdom of what she was saying. If he looked no deeper than whether or not he wanted another chance to see Sherlock again, which meant another date, the answer was an enthusiastic “yes.” He’d do his best to focus on that, and hope that the rest came in its own time, just like with any other relationship.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, her voice infused with sudden forced cheer, “enough about that. I did something last night too. I went to an, er, a meeting.”

“You mean for the drinking?”

“Yeah. Watsons aren’t cowards, remember? I couldn’t let you be the only one doing something brave.”

“That’s—” John held back his initial reaction, not wanting to come off as judgemental. “How was it? Did you- Was it good, then?”

“It was- weird, yeah. Not bad but not-” She sighed and John could imagine her scrubbing one hand over her face because the entire conversation made him want to start and never stop.

“I hated it. Er, not  _ it _ exactly, but just the fact that I needed it, you know? But that’s just me. Nobody else, not that they would because that’s not what it’s about, but it was… nice. Not judging, I mean. Christ, all I did was sit there. I didn’t participate or anything. I don’t know why it was— _ is _ —so hard.” She laughed, sounding like it hurt. “First step and all that, right?”

“That’s good though,” John scrambled to say, sure that if one of them didn’t keep talking the conversation would stall and picking it back up again would be even worse. “It’s good that you went, that you’re trying.”

“We’re  _ both _ trying,” Harry corrected. “And we’re going to keep trying. We’re in this together now.”

“ _ Christ _ ,” John said before he could stop himself, and Harry laughed with genuine amusement for the first time.

“God, this can’t end well.”

“It’ll be the two of us at a pub drinking ginger ale as you complain about how your complete wanker of a boyfriend never goes to the shops, John, you mark my words,” she snickered.

“Jesus, Harry, I thought you said I was worth it?”

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad as all that, John thought as his sister snorted into the phone. The word “boyfriend” had only evoked a stab of nervous squirming discomfort instead of the usual angry clench of gut-deep denial. That was an improvement above and beyond anything he’d thought possible when Harry had initially sprung her idea on him. He could do this, or at least  _ try _ . Harry had gone to a meeting. He wasn’t alone in this.

“Much as I’d like to hear your charming predictions for how worth it I am, I have to go. The surgery called right before I went to dinner to say I’d got the job, and I agreed to come in today for the paperwork.”

“Oh, congrats, Johnny! See, things are looking up already. It’ll be all right, just watch.”

“Yeah, right. Well you too, Harry.”

After they’d rung off he stared at his beige walls some more. She was right. It’d be fine. He had a job and he was dating someone who looked like he’d walked off the pages of a magazine spread. His relationship with his sister was something more than civil and loads better than it’d been in ages. Compared to what he’d had on coming back from Afghanistan, that was a lot.

In the interests of keeping one item on his list now he had it, John spent most of the commute to the clinic trying and rejecting several attempts to text Sherlock, not sure how to say “thanks for being the first man to go out with me” without actually saying it. Finally, when he realized he was almost there and running a serious risk of pacing outside the door until he’d crafted the perfect text, he gave up and tapped out a generic message, sending it into the ether before he could change his mind.

It was only after the receptionist at the desk greeted him with an eerily sunny smile and an “Oh!  _ You _ must be Dr. Watson. Dr. Sawyer said to expect you this morning.” that he remembered his interview with said doctor a few days ago, pre-meeting Sherlock Holmes.

He’d seen her smile and the receptiveness in her eyes and thought maybe if he got the job and  _ if  _ it went well there might be something to pursue. But that had been before “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and deductions and a chase that had been the best bloody date he’d ever had, kidnapping, uncertainty, and all.

This time Sarah Sawyer’s smile nearly made him flee the room in anticipatory awkwardness, still pretty and charming but somehow  _ less _ after having spent the evening in the company of clever quicksilver eyes.

“John, hi, good morning.”

He returned the greeting and handshake on automatic, exchanging pleasantries as Sarah walked him through the paperwork. He did his best to keep his responses professional but open, but could tell Sarah had picked up on his sudden reticence. She followed his example as she gave him a tour and introduced him to the rest of the clinic’s staff, body language stiffer than it had been initially but friendly on the surface. Finally after they’d hashed out his schedule and which shifts needed to be covered for the next few months pending any changes, Sarah sat back in her chair and looked at him, expression unreadable.

“So was it all for the job, then?”

John winced, he couldn’t help it. She was wrong, but it was easy to see where she’d gotten the impression.

“No. No, God, of course not. I just, er, I had a date last night. Blind date, set up by my sister.”

They were the right words, but a small part of him was sorry to voice them knowing what would happen. He could practically  _ see _ the moment she put aside her interest in him and decided to be a supportive friend. God knew workplace romances could be awkward, but that door would be closed to him forever now, the choice to pursue it taken out of his hands before he’d decided whether he wanted it or not.

“Oh.” There was a flash of what might have been disappointment, then her face turned warm and mischievous, a friend sensing juicy news. “What’s her name?”

He should have known it would be inevitable with the topic of conversation, but he was startled and a tad nervous to realize his first time outing himself to someone other than Harry would be to the pretty female doctor he’d been flirting with only a few days ago.

“His. His name is Sherlock.”

She smiled without hesitation, the flicker of surprise barely there before it vanished.

“That’s an interesting name. What does he do?”

John started fielding questions feeling awkward, but talking about Sherlock reminded him how fantastic the previous night had been, and soon he was enthusiastically recounting the evening in more detail than he’d given Harry, aided by the fact that Sarah was a fantastic audience.

“You were  _ kidnapped? _ ”

“Er, no, I just thought I was at first. I wasn’t actually in any danger. The gun was fake.”

Sarah gave him a look, part skepticism and part amusement.

“That explains why you don’t mind mundane, not if you’re getting your action elsewhere.”

Something about the tone of her voice was so knowing John felt heat rise to his face. He opened his mouth to say something though he had no idea what, but was interrupted by a knock at the door and the receptionist poking her head in.

“Sarah, sorry, your ten-thirty is here.”

“God, it’s that late already? Why didn’t you come get me earlier?”

The receptionist gave her a pointed look, glancing at John in a way that made him squirm. For the first time Sarah appeared flustered, trying to frown at the receptionist and smile reassuringly at John at the same time. When his mobile vibrated in his pocket he reached for it eagerly, his pulse thudding loudly in his ears when he saw Sherlock’s name on the screen.

“Well.”

John jerked to attention when Sarah spoke, and his face must have given him away because she was looking at him with genuine warmth.

“Perfect timing. What did he say?”

“Er,” he cleared his throat, trying to ignore the nosy receptionist’s hovering. “Lunch. He wants to do lunch tomorrow.”

“Great, you’ll have to tell me all about it when I see you next. You’re a pretty good storyteller, John, have you ever considered doing any writing?”

The receptionist’s curiosity turned into outright suspicion and she glared at him. John smiled weakly.  
  


* * *

Sherlock had a respectable four-and-a-half-hour post-case snooze, and woke feeling lit from within with purpose. The first order of business was Moriarty, but after putting the word out through his Network and assorted contacts all that remained was to return to Baker Street for the tedium of  _ waiting _ . A criminal sponsor in London— How long had he lurked in the shadows, Sherlock unaware of his existence? It was  _ maddening _ that he couldn’t do anything without more information.

He checked his email absently, noting the number of unread messages awaiting his attention before striding into the kitchen with the vague thought of performing an experiment. There again his inattention betrayed him, too keyed up to do more than shuffle his equipment and glassware around with no real aim in mind. He dumped a stack of encrusted petri dishes and old slides into the sink, had a go at scrubbing them, and abandoned the lot at the urge to work his frustrations out via violin.

In the sitting room he was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson’s familiar greeting and the appearance of the woman herself, preceded by a loaded tea tray.

“I heard you pacing about up here and thought you might be hungry. You did have an exciting night, didn’t you?”

She handed him a cup and made herself one before perching on the arm of the sofa. Sherlock paused with most of a chocolate hobnob in his mouth and looked at her, surprised into attention by behavior other than the usual fluttering about and tutting at the state of the flat.

She’d taken care with her appearance—coordinated outfit, makeup, and nail varnish, dash of the perfume her sister sent for her birthday last year, discernable beneath the smell of fresh baking. Flirting with Mr. Chatterjee after Sherlock had told her about his wife…? No, she’d been taunting him by dressing up and wafting the scent of baked goods under his nose and those of his clientele, rubbing his face in what he couldn’t have. She looked too pleased with herself, and there was no grease in the creases of her fingers from Speedy’s kitchen. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the hobnobs. If she’d indulged in a spate of passive-aggressive baking why was  _ he _ getting store-bought biscuits?

Mrs. Hudson pre-empted him by patting his hand.

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll have some up for you later, but I simply couldn’t wait.”

Her voice went squeaky at the end and— Good lord, were her eyes  _ sparkling _ ?

“Oh, go on, Sherlock, tell me how it went! What happened with Dr. Watson?”

She went pink and giggled into her teacup. Sherlock stared at her and the tea tray, aghast. Fresh chocolate hobnobs—there were always more crumbs on the plate at the end of the pack—the fancy Danish butter cookies she only had at the holidays and fiercely hoarded the rest of the year, and, oh, god, was that a macaroon? He  _ knew _ she had a few left over from the last batch, but she’d gotten very good at hiding them.

She was bribing him with biscuits, luring him into a false sense of security before she struck. Sherlock had been _played_.

“I imagine it was ever so romantic, you rushing after him like that.” Her sigh was uncomfortably girlish for a woman his mother’s age. “You’ve been holding out on everyone, haven’t you, just waiting for the right one to come along. He is a bit fit isn’t he, Sherlock, your doctor. How did you meet?”

His brain stalled embarrassingly like a skipped record player as it grasped the full import of his predicament—baited with biscuits into a trap Mrs. Hudson had set to coo and grill him about his “relationship”—and began trying to calculate tactical counter-measures. He was about to claim a caustic experiment was bubbling over in the kitchen when his mobile chimed.

“ _ I had a great time last night. Can I see you again? -John Watson _ ”

There was some saying about this situation, wasn’t there? Sherlock was too relieved to care about aphorisms he’d likely deleted, seizing on the excuse.

“Yes, speaking of.” He interrupted her mid-retelling some fluttery reminiscence of the halcyon days before her husband became an abusive drug lord. “I have to go.”

Sherlock collected his coat from where he’d tossed it and went to the door, backtracking to swipe a handful of biscuits including the lone macaroon.

“Was that Dr. Watson? Are you going to see him today?”

“Can’t stay, Mrs. Hudson. Must run.”

“Have fun! I’ll tidy a bit up here, can’t have the flat a tip if you’re to be entertaining your man.”

He frowned and hesitated on the stairs, but nothing in the kitchen was worth more of her questions.

“The baking should be done by the time you get back,” she called as the door slammed.

Sherlock slumped against the door, gave the CCTV a two-finger salute just because, and tucked his chin into his collar. Did everyone put up with this in a relationship—nosy inquiries from all and sundry? Turned out of his own flat by Mrs. Hudson’s prurient interest after one faux-date. God, how horrid, how did they all s _ tand _ it?

He glared balefully at the sitting room windows, but she’d be at it for another hour at least and there was no point going back until she and the baking was done.

Sherlock unlocked his mobile and reread John’s text. A prompt response was likely required. He’d seen numerous complaints about the complexities of dating text conversations last night, but his laptop was upstairs with Mrs. Hudson. Though he doubted the collective experience of the Internet could suggest a second date on par with kidnapping and the apprehension of a serial poisoner.

Maybe he needed a different strategy. Any mental simulations would be missing an essential element. But he had a limited sample size from which to borrow experience. Mrs. Hudson had proven herself intolerable, nevermind that her husband had preferred drug trafficking to their marriage. Divorced, Lestrade was likewise not an ideal candidate, and the Yard an unappealing location for the request. And marriage, failed or otherwise, wasn’t the same as being in the “dating game,” which left one last option.

“You’ve been on dates.”

He’d waited until Molly put down the scalpel, but she still managed to injure herself when she flinched so hard the table shook.

“S-Sherlock! Hi. How are- Um. What?”

She fiddled with her hands, noticed the scalpel, and carefully moved it.

“Dates.” He pronounced the words slowly. “You’ve had them. Yes?”

“I, um. Yes?”

“Consecutive dates. More than one, with the same person.”

“Once or twice, um. Had a boyfriend for a year and a half in uni, but he had a job offer in the States, so. Um. Tony. Think of him sometimes because it’s similar to ‘Toby,’ you know, my cat—”

“Yes, fine, good.” Sherlock shoved his phone in her face to stop the babbling. “How would you reply to this?”

Molly squeaked and reached for the phone, pausing to remove her gloves first.

“Last night?”

Sherlock looked at her.

“Right. Um, well, he—” they both pretended her voice didn’t quiver on the word— “wants to see you again. Must’ve had a good time. So that’s, um, good. Why do you need  _ my _ help with this?”

“Our ‘first date’ was… unusual. I don’t know how to proceed.” He scowled and admitted, “Relationships aren’t my area.”

“What do you mean, ‘unusual?’ You didn’t meet him at a crime scene, did you?”

Her nervous laughter trailed off when he didn’t clarify and she gaped at him.

“You  _ didn’t _ \- Oh, god, of  _ course _ you did.”

Her sudden vehemence was startling. Sherlock wondered if perhaps he’d gambled too heavily on her crush as Molly turned away, hands pressed deeply into the pockets of her lab coat. He’d begun measuring the distance between her tense frame and the nearest weapon when she took a deep breath and looked at him.

“Okay.” She nodded, smile forcibly bright. “Met at a crime scene sounds perfect for you.”

“No, we met at the cafe down the street, when I got coffee for you yesterday. We had dinner and after he assisted in solving the serial suicide case. He was… helpful, and I’d like to keep him, so if you could tell me what to say in response to this-”

Molly poked at the phone, hair falling into her face as she swiped through the sparse text exchange.

“You like him?”

“I found his company acceptable, yes.”

“I think…” She inhaled slowly, fidgeting with his mobile. “You’d better tell me what happened, if you want my advice.”

Sherlock took his phone before she could drop it.

“Is that necessary?”

“If you want my advice,” she repeated.

Sherlock frowned. His brief summary was fine. She didn’t need to  _ know _ anymore than Mrs. Hudson, why couldn’t she just tell him what to say? She’d been on dates, didn’t she have experience with this, some pre-arranged wording that could be sent according to the situation?

Molly stared at him with her lips pinched tight and didn’t say anything.

Frustrated at her lack of cooperation when she was usually so compliant, Sherlock could have shaken her, but he thought of his research, the online communities built around puzzling out where they’d gone wrong. Sherlock knew from his forum that his words didn’t need to be delivered in person to drive people away. If he pushed Molly too far and she gave him bad advice, what were the chances John would stick around without his attraction or his addiction to danger to smooth the way?

Grudgingly he told her, reserving his annoyance every time she stopped him for more details.

“Wait-” she interrupted him  _ again _ . “He got in the cab driven by the murderer? You mean… he was  _ kidnapped? _ ”

“No, he wasn’t in any danger. The gun was a fake.”

Molly snatched his phone, ignoring his protests.

“He said he had a ‘ _ great time.’ _ ” Her voice was thin and accusatory. Sherlock blinked.

“We went out for dim sum after.”

“Oh my god.” Molly started giggling, slapped a hand over her mouth, and shook herself so violently Sherlock took a step back.

“I don’t know what you needed  _ me _ for. Just take him to a crime scene, he’ll love that.”

“The criminals of London never indulge me when I’m bored. I doubt they’d be more obliging because I need a second date.”

“Why can’t you go to dinner again? He seems to like the, um, crime. You can talk about it. Common interests.”

“He’s an army doctor with an addiction to danger. Why would he want to  _ talk _ ?” Of greater importance, why would  _ Sherlock? _ Dull.

Molly made a strange face, so different from how she usually looked at him he couldn’t read its meaning.

“You… really haven’t done this before, have you?”

“Not.” He clipped the syllables as he enunciated. “My. Area.”

“But that’s how dating works, Sherlock. You talk about things with each other. Likes, dislikes.” She trailed off at his expression, eyes darting nervously around the morgue. “Um. Interesting corpses, maybe. He’s a doctor, you said?

“My point is you can’t just- just go chasing criminals every time!”

“Why not?” He demanded. “How would  _ you _ define a ‘date,’ if my interpretation was so wrong?”

“I guess…” She chewed on her lip in thought. “A date in where two people who like each other go out to have fun.”

“We did that!” He pointed in aggravation at his mobile.

“But!” Molly floundered for a moment. “Well, what about now when you’ve nothing on, or the next time all the criminals are, um, under the weather, not in the mood for murder,” she waved vaguely, “all gone on holiday to visit their grans. Then it’s just the two of you spending time together without the buffer of criminals to catch or cases or-”

Cases! Oh, finally Molly said something useful. He’d been too distracted earlier, but surely something in his inbox would suffice for a few hours. John hadn’t seen him  _ solve _ anything yet, he’d definitely like that.

He made to retrieve his phone, but Molly dodged out of reach.

“Okay, Sherlock, I know you’ve got ideas.” She grimaced when he made another attempt and darted behind the slab. “But you need to listen to me, this is very important-”

“You’ve been very helpful, Molly, thank you, but I need-”

She squeaked when her back met an unoccupied table. Sherlock smirked thinking he’d finally cornered her until Molly glared and made to  _ stuff his phone down her blouse _ . Sherlock skidded to a halt.

“-to  _ listen to me _ — Are you done?”

He nodded, too shocked for a better response.

“Good.” Molly took a deep breath and thankfully moved his phone away from her bosom. “I’m glad you came to me, Sherlock. It means a lot to me, that you asked  _ me _ . But asking for my advice means listening to it and I’m telling you right now you can’t stalk John Watson.”

“I didn’t-”

Molly cut him off his protestation of innocence by showing him his phone, specifically the text with the address of John’s new job, home address to follow. Maybe he’d made an extra request to Wiggins with his other inquiries to be thorough. He didn’t plan to follow up on the information.

“That wasn’t-”

_ Molly  _ gave him the skeptically disappointed look Mycroft was most fond of, the face Mrs. Hudson wore when he went too far. Since when did  _ Molly Hooper _ use that expression on  _ him _ ?

“Is John a criminal, Sherlock? Has he done anything illegal?”

Sherlock didn’t say that it was only a matter of time but with John’s morals nothing he did would ever make him a criminal. Molly’s face said he’d regret arguing the point.

“No.”

“No, he’s not.” She gestured at him with his mobile, realized what she’d done, and hastily pulled it back to her chest, a reassuringly Molly-like behavior. “He’s a bloke you went on a date with, and I know you can’t stand not knowing everything about everybody, but if you stalk him  _ you’ll  _ be the criminal.”

He winced. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, she had a point. He wasn’t likely to be caught, but the risk wasn’t worth it. A restraining order after one date would look worse to Mycroft and Mummy than getting his date poisoned. One indicated inattention and a lack of care, the other an application of his talents in a new unhealthy direction.

“So you’ll just have to wait to be invited over like… like everyone else. Um.”

Whatever daring Molly had summoned vanished and she practically threw his phone in her haste to be rid of it, face flaming.

“He likes you! He asked you out, sent a follow-up text early so you’d know he had a good time when he could have waited. Invite him. Anywhere, he’ll say yes. Ask him to a meal, show him round the Yard, I- I’ll come in, if he’s interested in pathology—”

Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his glee when he received an immediate reply to his email, and quickly composed a text.

“Lunch.”

“—the weather’s no good this time of year, so maybe a museum. What’s the one you need the Yard’s permission to get into? Lots of dead crime things in there. I bet Greg could get you in— Sorry, what?”

“Scotland Yard’s Crime Museum, more commonly known as the Black Museum, and I’ve asked John out to lunch.”

Molly stopped poking the corpse with a tongue depressor, nervous energy going out of her at once.

“Oh, great! Good luck.” She blanched. “Not that you need it! He really likes you, I’m sure he’ll come.”

Sherlock ignored her for his chiming mobile, grinned at the text, and showed the screen in lieu of a response.

“Sherlock, that’s fantastic! Well done, you!”

She made to hug him and recoiled. Sherlock took pity on her horrified face, leaning in to cautiously pat her back. Despite the babbling she’d given him useful advice—the Black Museum would be a good alternative the next time he was sans-case for a date—and he owed her something knowing she’d never gossip.  


“Thank you, Molly.” He said when he let go.  
  
“You’re welcome.” Molly beamed, tripped on nothing, and put her bare hand down on the dead man’s leg. “Oh, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock treats Molly absolutely abysmally and she doesn't deserve it, so I made her the Love Guru as cosmic comeuppance.


	4. The First Cut Is The Deepest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big heartfelt _thank you_ to everyone who's left me comments expressing interest, especially those of you following for future updates.
> 
> It may not seem like it, what with the computer screen in the way, but your encouragement really does mean a lot to me and kept me struggling to finish this chapter despite real life constantly making things difficult.
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to add, since it needs to be said, that S3 (and S4 by extension) have no place in this au, largely for reasons revealed in this chapter.

John grabbed a quick sandwich after fleeing the clinic, then went for a walk to get his head on straight. He could admit that Sherlock was attractive and brilliant and anyone would be lucky to have him and John really liked him, but the mental image of the two of them going about holding hands in public filled him with a petrifying shame. Sarah had been supportive when she could’ve given him hell for dating a man instead of her, and Harry wasn’t going to throw the first stone, but, god, he was relieved their parents were gone because they hadn’t been happy when she came out.

The thought only added another layer of guilt and shame he couldn’t deal with, so instead he enjoyed walking cane-free and tried to imagine lunch the next day, each scenario more unlikely than the last. Cornering a notorious hacker in a cafe where he was posing as a waiter? Fish and chips in a seedy pub waiting to rumble Eastern European arms dealers? Maybe something cheap and satisfying from a food cart before stopping a top-secret information exchange.

He was being ridiculous. Not every date could end with a breathless chase and the culprit’s dramatic death. He’d be happy with another chance to listen to Sherlock’s animated conversation while eating delicious food.

Thinking of the other man reminded him of Sarah’s suggestion to try his hand at writing. For the first time ever he was excited to go back to his bedsit—more so realizing he could afford to move with his new job—and spent the rest of the day typing up a blog entry about his date. Harry called during dinner and, conscious that Sarah knew more about his date than the sister who’d set him up, he told her about the blog.

They got in a fight when she tried to explain how to make the posts accessible to specific IP addresses, and John finished his dinner guiltily relieved at the return to the sibling status quo after the past few days of harmony. Harry called back before he could decide if he was a bad brother or not, confessed that she’d left a meeting and spent forty minutes pacing outside a pub in apology, and John gave her his password in return. The evening passed with assurances that no, he wasn’t hurt, nobody had been shot, he wasn’t in trouble with the police, and actually it had been brilliant. When he finally mentioned his second date it was time for bed, saving him from further criticism of his dating attire.

Sherlock’s choice of venue was a cafe, inexpensive and casual but not a chain, and nobody looked twice at him or offered a candle, which was a relief to John’s nerves. He’d timed it better, or maybe Sherlock had anticipated him, because the other man swept in just as his tea was delivered.

“John. You haven’t ordered yet. You needn’t wait for me, I’m not eating.” He shook his head at the waiter waiting for his drink order.

“Er. You’re not?”

The instant the words left his mouth John realized they might be insensitive. Thinking back, Sherlock had spent more time talking than he had eating. There’d been girlfriends in the past who wouldn’t eat in front of him on the first few dates, nervous he’d judge them for their orders or having an appetite. Sherlock didn’t seem the type to care, but maybe John was being sexist for assuming only women did that and a cad for drawing attention to it.

“Ate earlier. I didn’t have breakfast and couldn’t wait, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. John hurriedly reached for his tea and burnt his tongue. The waiter was still hovering, awkward at the shift in mood, and John placed his order anxious to save the conversation.

“So, have you had any luck with that? You know—” He leaned forward, feeling like he was in a bad spy novel but unable to keep himself from whispering. “‘Moriarty.’”

Sherlock straightened and stopped watching the other patrons to focus on John.

“No.” He glared at the paper napkins the waiter had left. “But it can take my Network days to follow up difficult leads.”

“Sorry, your ‘Network?’”

Apparently Sherlock paid homeless people throughout London to spy for him. John asked if he used carrier pigeons too, and found himself in a serious conversation about the merits of various professions as informants, sure he’d never look at postal workers or lorry drivers the same way again. As John polished off his sandwich Sherlock finished a monologue about busking and fell silent, long fingers playing with his untouched water glass.

“John.” Sherlock cleared his throat, unexpectedly formal after ranting that utility workers were useless because their poor customer satisfaction reviews attracted too much attention. “Would you like to accompany me on a case?”

“I—” John swallowed, the hair at the nape of his neck prickling in anticipation. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Excellent!”

Instantly Sherlock had waved the waiter over, handed him a too-large bill before John could protest, and shrugged into his coat.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait, where are we-?”

The question went unanswered in his race to catch Sherlock at the door. He wanted to ask as he struggled with his coat, but realized from Sherlock’s satisfied smirk that he’d planned this and was so flustered the words disappeared.

Sherlock led him into the expansive lobby of a bank and up an escalator, darting to speak to the woman at the front desk while John stared in awe at all the glass and chrome, then beckoned him impatiently.

“So,” John eyed the security turnstiles as they passed, “bank robber?”

“Bank _intruder_ ,” Sherlock corrected. “Someone broke in night before last and left something. The client didn’t specify what.”

“A reverse bank robber. That’s different.”

“ _Interesting_.”

Sherlock flashed a grin before zeroing in on a pretty young woman who greeted him and introduced herself as their guide. They were led past a cubicle farm of busy people making phone calls in various languages to a corner office, the woman knocking and poking her head in before gesturing them through.

Conscious that he was the hanger-on for what was Sherlock’s actual job, John fell into step behind the detective and didn’t see the person—presumably Sherlock’s client—until the door had shut behind them and it was too late.

“Mr. Holmes,” said a man’s voice, familiar in a way that John vaguely recognized. “Thank you so much for coming in on such short notice. I appreciate—”

Sherlock moved further into the room to offer his hand, giving John a clear view of the man rising from behind the desk for the first time.

“ _Arthur?_ ”

Like John he was a little older, a little grayer, middle-aged paunch ruining his fit rugby build. But the laugh lines paired well with the crisp suit, his tie a tad loose at the neck the way it’d always been when he had to wear one in uni. He was missing the fag tucked behind one ear, but his eyes were the same warm blue, and the sight of them sent a punch of nostalgia straight through John’s chest.

Entire universes were born and died in the seconds between John opening his mouth and Arthur’s realization of who was standing in his corner office. In the time it took Arthur to recognize him—a bitter sting when John had known him on sight—he felt himself flung back across the gulf of years between them, pain fresh and raw as if the wound wasn’t over a decade old. Arthur’s eyes flicked from John to Sherlock, assessing their relationship and, _god_ , Sherlock— He only needed to turn his head to read the entire story from John’s face. That was worse, somehow, than being made to feel like this again, Sherlock witnessing his reunion with someone who barely remembered him. This proved anything John did was futile because Sherlock would look at him and know it had been a mistake—

“Mr. Morstan, I mentioned bringing an acquaintance in my email. This is my colleague, Doctor John Watson.”

“Right. Yes, you did say you might…” Arthur looked at him, glanced back at John. “Colleague?”

And John couldn’t let that go because Sherlock had planned this, made room in his work for John and intended to follow through despite whatever he was getting from the tense atmosphere.

“Friend.”

His voice was too loud. Remembering what had happened with the police, he pasted a smile on his face and straightened his shoulders. Arthur could read whatever he wanted into that and did, eyes widening to look Sherlock over with too much intensity to be polite.

“You’ve had a break in,” Sherlock prompted when the silence stretched too long, and John was spitefully pleased when Arthur flushed at the slight against his professionalism.

“Yes- Sir William’s office. The bank’s Chairman. He’s on vacation in Cebu, or he’d have had an unpleasant shock yesterday morning.”

Sherlock shifted and John caught the flash of pale eyes in his direction before he drew himself up, tall and impossibly elegant.

“Your benefactor. He’s the one who got you this job, isn’t he? You’re grateful to him—it isn’t easy living in London as a single father of a young child—and eager to have this solved before he returns.”

He paced around the desk as he spoke, forcing Arthur to turn like a swimmer watching a circling shark.

“Ah. You weren’t his first choice. He brought you in after the financial crisis—wanted new blood to assure the shareholders something was being done. You’re competent and well-liked, but you weren’t always so careful and you know you can’t afford that now, don’t want him to remember it was supposed to be a temporary position. What did they leave? You contacted me instead of the police so the nature of the object isn’t as alarming as its presence.”

“Uh.”

Arthur’s mouth fell open and he gaped unattractively at Sherlock’s deductive spiel. The inappropriate pride John felt drowned out the self-doubt and insecurity from before, and the stab of confused envy at hearing his once-friend had a child.

“It- Just looks like graffiti to me, but there’s a hole in our security somewhere. Every door in the bank is logged in the system, and none of them opened the night of the break in. I’ll show you Sir William’s office in a moment, but here, you can see the security footage.”

He sat and typed something into his computer, reaching out to place one of his picture frames face-down as John rounded the desk. Clenching his jaw, John ignored the other picture and told himself to focus as Arthur showed them the yellow spray paint appearing over the Chairman’s portrait in the sixty second gap between the camera’s sweep. After Sherlock had looked his fill Arthur took them across the trading floor to the office so they could see the graffiti in person. Sherlock immediately started taking pictures as John stared at the unintelligible squiggle, painfully aware of Arthur standing nearby.

“You’re sure that all of the ways into the office were monitored?”

“You can see the security logs for the doors yourself.”

Arthur shrugged and gestured behind him, but Sherlock shook his head.

He stared at the other man, face unreadable, before spinning to plant his hands on John’s shoulders.

“John, will you do something for me?”

“Of course.” John startled and tried to ignore Arthur watching them. “What?”

“I need you to—” Sherlock propelled him into the office, nudging him back and forth until he was satisfied. “Stand- just here. Good. Don’t move.”

He ducked away with a whirl of coat and John turned to see him leave the room, Arthur looking after him in bemusement.

“Don’t move!”

John faced forward again, glad he didn’t have to see Arthur without Sherlock there as buffer. From this close the paint looked like something from the walls of the Tate Modern, one long seemingly continuous line that doubled back on itself several times and was further obscured by the drip trails from the wet paint.

Sherlock returned before John could achieve the zen-like trance he’d seen avid museum-goers assume.

“We’re done here, John.”

“Oh, here-” Arthur pulled a check from inside his jacket and held it out. “An advance. If you can tell me how he got in I’ll have another one for you.”

Sherlock looked it over and handed it back.

“Halve the amount and make the rest out to John. Any cases he assists with we split the fees.”

And he strode off before John could say anything. He nodded a tight farewell, not about to tell Arthur they’d never discussed this before because John _didn’t_ regularly assist on cases, and made to follow Sherlock.

“John.”

He clenched his hands and stopped, turning his head slightly in acknowledgement.

“You look well.” Arthur hesitated. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” John said through gritted teeth. “We won’t need it.”

Sherlock was waiting for him at the escalators, looking at something on his phone.

“The check, um...” John cleared his throat, not sure if Sherlock was listening. “You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense.” He finished whatever he was doing and pocketed it. “I might not have caught Hope if it hadn’t been for you. Your assistance was invaluable. It’s the least I can do.”

“Right. Thanks.” There wasn’t any socially acceptable way to say he’d done it for the adrenaline without coming off touched in the head, so he didn’t bother. “About the Chairman giving him the job- How did you know?”

“Did you see his watch?”

“His watch?”

“Better quality than his clothes, which are tailored well to hide that they’re older. A man like that wouldn’t spend money on a new Breitling from last year’s Winter Collection. Who, then? No wife, family and friends buy for his daughter instead. Must be a work anniversary gift. A year is too soon, even for employees who pick the dead leaves from his office plants. Two years places his hire date during the crisis and being indebted to Sir William explains why he replied to my email within two minutes of receiving it.”

He anticipated the question John was trying hardest not to ask, stretching his right hand out in demonstration.

“Widower. Wedding band on his right where he can see it rather than on a chain suggests it was recent but not more than a decade. Daughter was statistically more likely from the attempt at flowers on the ceramic cat desk ornament, confirmed from the pictures.”

John thought about it as they crossed the lobby. Judging from her art skills he’d guess between three and seven, which meant she’d lost her mother very young. He stopped at the revolving doors, suddenly remembering that Arthur Morstan wasn’t the reason they’d come.

“Wait, don’t you need to look around some more?”

“I’ve learned everything I needed already.”

“So what does it mean?”

“Not sure, but whoever did it chose that location on purpose. Three hundred people on the trading floor and very few of them could see it.”

“Definitely not meant for Sir William then?”

Sherlock smirked and waved John ahead. “Definitely not.”

“You worked out the layout and eliminated the people who couldn’t see it from their desks?” That explained what he’d been doing while John stared at the Chairman's portrait, but not why he’d needed him to face the other way.

“You’re forgetting the timing. Why leave it at eleven thirty-four at night?”

“Er, someone trading in Asia? Japan, maybe?”

Sherlock beamed and took a nameplate out of his coat, showing it to John. “Hong Kong, actually.”

“Can’t be too many De Kleines in the phone book.”

“Why bother?” A taxi pulled up before his arm was completely raised. “I asked the secretary for his address.”

Nobody answered when they buzzed Jonathan De Kleine’s flat, prompting Sherlock to trick a new resident into letting them in with a surprising show of affability. John thought about it as he waited at the door of the flat. That Sherlock could act wasn’t strange—the man had his own spy network and was in the business of uncovering other people’s secrets, acting was par for the course. But watching him pretend to be cheerful only made John realize how different he really was.

He’d already seen how brusque the detective became when he was focusing, issuing orders and snapping for silence. It was clear his job meant everything by how he talked about it, proud of his ability to solve puzzles no one else could. And John understood bragging to a date, though he’d usually been the culprit instead of the recipient. It was… charming, actually, knowing Sherlock wanted to tell him things, had seen John’s interest and planned to include him.

Okay fine, he could admit Harry was right about this being a learning experience. John enjoyed the company of people who cared more about their passions than about being nice. He’d always been a bit bored of those people, to be honest, which explained the premature demise of several of his relationships. God, he was too old to be learning new things about himself. Ella had better not make that face where she pretended she wasn’t disappointed in him at their next session.

There was a click and Sherlock appeared.

“Come in, but don’t touch anything. I don’t think De Kleine gave them the answer they wanted.”

 

* * *

 

John said yes.

Sherlock had known he would, but Molly had _insisted_. She’d made her point by asking him how he’d feel if taken to the cinema for what he thought was a case, only to be shown a movie instead, even if it was an IMAX about Jack the Ripper. He was increasingly glad he hadn’t picked Molly for this scheme as she was much cleverer than he’d given her credit for and he would be sorry to lose her assistance. Additionally, her crush had apparently given her insight into his character that might have foiled the ruse, insight that a stranger like John lacked.

The doctor was dazzled by their destination—must remember his middle class sensibilities in future so as not to make him self-conscious—but overall Sherlock had high hopes for this case. Once he saw whatever had been left behind it would be easy enough to deduce the intent behind the message. It was a three, _maybe_ a four if there was legwork involved. John would see him solve a case, possibly run down a criminal. Perfect.

But everything went wrong the moment he stepped into Morstan’s office.

John knew Morstan, and the reunion wasn’t a happy one. From Morstan’s lack of recognition it had been years since their falling out. Couldn’t have been the military; Morstan didn’t have the bearing. Sherlock would have said ex-friends from university if he’d been looking at a picture of the two men instead of in the room with them. John’s rigid stance, his left fist shaking as he pressed it into his thigh, paired with Morstan’s obvious guilt, his inability to look at John longer than a few seconds—an idiot like Anderson might have guessed Morstan had cheated with John’s girlfriend, but this was something else entirely.

A university fling would not inspire that amount of guilt, and a man who’d lost the love of his life to another wouldn’t miss the wedding ring on his rival’s wrong hand. John wasn’t holding a grudge, he was nursing a hurt of a different sort. Sherlock didn’t need to test his dodgy leg or see the resigned defeat directed at himself to understand.

God’s sake, _really?_

The one case in his inbox perfect for his second date with John and _this_ was the result? The last thing he needed was to remind John of his uncertainties early in their relationship. The plan was to hook him with the Work, distracting him from the boring normalities of dating Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with, _then_ drive him off with doubts about the physical aspects of a homosexual relationship once he’d served his purpose.

Christ, what a disaster. He was tempted to leave, but the damage had been done. Except when he tried to give John an out as he had with the Met John surprised him by clenching his jaw and spitting the word “friend” with a vehemence that implied anything but and dared Morstan to comment.

That was unexpected. Loyalty this soon, in front of someone whose rejection hurt years later? Maybe their first date had gone better than he’d realized. Best to make the most of it; John liked his deductions and would be more secure if he wasn’t the center of attention.

Sherlock circled Morstan’s desk to examine the contents. A ceramic cat painted by an unsteady hand, and a pair of framed photographs. One of Morstan and his deceased wife with their very young daughter, the other of the girl several years later—taken within the past six months based on the frame and lack of fading—in a garish pink dress with clashing costume jewelry. His papers were disorganized, but there wasn’t a hint of dust anywhere, including the thriving plants by the windows. Morstan’s watch was expensive and flashy, his clothing older, tie and jacket rumpled. Incautious with money in his youth, he’d learned care for his possessions only recently. Gambling, if Sherlock had to guess, which explained John’s former attraction to a man who was now the epitome of responsible single fatherhood.

He was pleased by the flash of satisfaction in John’s eyes—nearly as good as if he’d called him _brilliant_ again—and that everyone’s focus was back on the case. But he was distracted from finding the recipient of the message in the Chairman's office by the realization that the others hadn’t shelved their interpersonal drama. The likeliest result of leaving them alone together didn’t bear thinking about. It was lucky that John was so biddable, and they managed to escape without any emotionally-fraught confrontations.

Nobody answered at De Kleine’s apartment and Sherlock’s theory on how the intruder entered the bank was confirmed when he let himself in through De Kleine’s unlocked balcony door. Already suspecting the broker’s fate, Sherlock took his time looking around the rest of the flat.

Large, barely touched coffee table books on Chinese antiquities and famous palace gardens shared space with carefully pruned bonsai trees. The Chinese language newspapers and the stack of Mandarin-English dictionaries showed more use, and Sherlock smirked when he pulled the stub of a betting ticket from the entry for “园”. Gambling debts would explain why De Kleine was being threatened. Nothing in the fridge but Dutch pilsner. Bathroom almost as pristine as the kitchen. Clearly any time De Kleine had at home was spent with a watering can and a tiny pair of shears.

Sherlock took his shoulder to the bedroom door when he found it locked, and frowned at the body on the bed. De Kleine could have been ignoring his creditors for months, but money seemed an unlikely motive to infiltrate a high-security bank when breaking into a flat was easier and more effective. From his luggage De Kleine had only just returned; had he seen the message at the bank? Sherlock scrutinized the dirty clothing and went to let John in, comparing the severity of the punishment to the offense suggested by the evidence.

John wouldn’t touch the body before the Met arrived. Frustrating but, fine, they would work up to it. He would cave if the official response was too slow and time of the essence, Sherlock was sure. And John would need practice to be Sherlock’s assistant. His diagnosis, half a foot from the bed, was suicide, which was _obviously wrong_.

Lestrade walked in with Donovan as he was explaining the case.

“All right, what have you got for me, Sherlock?”

“It’s a suicide,” Anderson hissed from the bedroom doorway, where he’d been bristling whenever Sherlock came too close to the body. “Some posh city boy lost big at the races and offed himself.”

“Shut _up_ , Anderson. Go wait outside until you’re needed.” Sherlock closed the door on Anderson’s sputtering protests.

“ _Not_ a suicide. Jonathan De Kleine, Hong Kong Desk Head at Shad Sanderson. An intruder broke into the bank to leave a message for him, and he turns up dead less than two days later. _Clearly_ murder.”

“The door was locked from the inside!” Anderson shouted through the door.

“Because the killer wanted it to look like suicide! Right-handed victim, wound on the left side. Or would you bother using your left hand if you finally decided to spare me and the rest of the world your existence?”

“Oi! That’s enough, Freak.”

Sherlock glared at Donovan, impatient. This was usually the point Lestrade stepped in to separate them and told him to stop antagonizing his team and get on with it, but the DI was looking in the direction of the body and not paying attention. Donovan noticed the lack of backup and jabbed Lestrade with her elbow.

“Right, stop it, you two,” he said without looking at Sherlock. “Trouble at work, not a suicide, right-handed, go on.”

Sherlock would have launched into his deductions from the bank—a threat in code delivered by someone unafraid of heights—and what he’d gleaned from the victim’s flat—smuggling Chinese antiquities judging from his area of expertise and the strangely-shaped impression in his luggage; he’d bungled a job, or taken more than his share hence the threat, refused to confess, and goaded his blackmailer into violence—but he was distracted by Lestrade’s incongruous body language, hyperaware after the unpleasant revelations at the bank.

Lestrade hadn’t opened the notebook he used to jot down Sherlock’s deductions and his gaze was fixed on the wall above the bed with unwarranted intensity. Even Donovan found this behavior peculiar, and was squinting at her boss in confusion. Sensing their combined stares, Lestrade tensed and his shoulders began creeping towards his ears before he remembered himself and straightened them—embarrassed and hiding his face to avoid being deduced.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Something personal, or Donovan would have known about it. He considered what he knew of the DI’s bad habits—a predilection for eating poorly and consuming too much caffeine as a consequence of his job—before deciding on the most likely out-of-character behavior to trigger this reaction. A mundane one-night stand wouldn’t elicit this level of shame. What sexual impropriety had Lestrade committed since they’d last seen each other he felt the need to conceal from Sherlock?

Whoever it was hadn’t lasted longer than an evening, so it couldn’t have happened the previous night—there would have been some evidence Lestrade missed getting ready this morning. It had been late evening when they’d caught Hope, and much later still by the time Mycroft finished his business with the detective—

No.

He was wrong. He had to be.

Sherlock looked again, desperate for anything he’d missed. On closer inspection Lestrade was staring at the wall in lieu of the corpse because John, now the official presence hadn’t censored him, had moved closer to it.

Oh.

 _God_.

No!

No no no _nononono!_

Sherlock gaped, horrified; he couldn’t help it.

“You—”

Lestrade _flinched_ , as if he’d needed further proof he was right when for the first time in over two decades he wanted desperately to be _wrong_.

“ _Traitor!_ ”

John and Sally both jumped at his shout, and Lestrade finally looked at him, face nervous and guilty.

“Sherlock-”

Cheap aftershave—there was the same bit of stubble on the left side of his jaw he’d consistently missed since his divorce—and stale coffee, danish for breakfast—crumbs on his shirt collar and the corner of his mouth. No hint of Mycroft’s expensive cologne, preferred soap, or diesel car exhaust. He’d never consent to an assignation at Lestrade’s flat, and he’d be the sort to attempt genteel negotiations the morning after during a shared breakfast— It was over already. His brother _would_ get his chubby hands on _Sherlock’s_ detective only to ruin the whole thing.

“It was only the one night—he’s already bollocksed it up, of course he has. I _suppose_ I can forgive your transgression since you had the good sense to shove him over afterwards.”

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Sherlock, can we _not_ talk about this here?”

“Fine, but I get you in the divorce.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

He threw up his hands in annoyance, noticed Donovan’s raised eyebrow, and sighed again.

“Right. Look, we can talk about this—”

“I’d rather we never spoke of this again so I can delete all knowledge of it.”

“—later, after you’ve told me what happened to the dead man on the bed.”

“Smuggling antiquities to fuel his gambling addiction, which you might have noticed if not for your _indiscretion_.”

“Sherlock, I swear to God.”

Lestrade looked pointedly at John, but retrieved his notebook. Good, back to business. They’d put this behind them and let it die an unremarked death. Sherlock handed John a pair of gloves. The DI ignored Donovan’s incredulity and gave a weary nod to go ahead, which was the least he owed Sherlock after what he’d done.

“So, what, ran afoul of a rival gang?”

“No. He was skimming too much off the top, or taking jobs on the side, haven’t figured out which yet. His colleagues were displeased, but whoever they hired for the job botched it; you can’t get information from a corpse.”

“Mobile missing,” he reported after John declared the predictable but necessary time of death, “trying to track who he’s been in contact with.”

“An absent phone and a wound on the wrong side doesn’t prove he didn’t kill himself when he realized his creditors were after him.”

Sherlock ignored Donovan’s skepticism in favor of inspecting De Kleine’s legs, smirked at what he saw, and removed the right shoe and sock. The foot revealed was flesh-tone and stiff from something other than rigor mortis, the company name _Smithfield Medical_ and a flower-shaped logo stamped across the sole and heel.

“How about the fact his killer didn’t know how to reattach his prosthetic correctly?”

He tugged and the limb came away easily, held in place only by De Kleine’s trouser leg. Sherlock turned it over in his hands, found what he was looking for, and held the dent beside John’s head for comparison.

“The killer was waiting when De Kleine came home, ready to collect on his threat. Unarmed, De Kleine improvised, got the jump on the intruder, and was killed in self-defense.”

Sherlock gestured to a scratch in the prosthesis’ surface.

“The first bullet recoiled off the leg, went out the open window. The second didn’t miss.”

There was an astonished silence, then John said “I know a man with a wooden leg named Smith,” and both Donovan and Lestrade snorted in surprise. Sherlock frowned in confusion, but whatever reference John had made broke the tension and they listened without complaint when he explained about the shoes being tied by two different people.

“It’s a pity about his mobile, but we might be able to retrace his steps from his receipts.”

John, who’d been hovering in the corner as the forensics team muddled about, looked up and said “What about the book that bloke just bagged? It looks like an appointment book.”

Anderson’s head jerked up and he tried to hide the evidence baggie behind his back like a guilty child. Sherlock swooped in with a pleased smirk. Perhaps John needed less training than he’d anticipated, if he already knew to keep an eye on Anderson.

De Kleine was as exacting with his calendar as he was with his pruning. The day the message had been left at the bank he’d visited an address in Chinatown, a recurring appointment that fell whenever he returned from overseas. John trailing eagerly, they left the crime scene, though not before Sherlock overheard Donovan hiss “You _slept_ with the Freak’s brother?” on the way out.

The shop they located was disarmingly filled with kitschy souvenirs, but he didn’t miss how the shopkeeper placed herself in front of the back room when they came in. He was pretending to inspect a row of lucky cats while he formulated a plan when he ran into a motionless John, staring in rapt concentration at a cheap wall scroll.

“This is where De Kleine made his drops—easy enough when the Chinese restaurant next door has no visible address. No one would expect a frequent visitor to Hong Kong here, but he could be homesick and peckish. The shopkeeper is hiding something—”

“Sherlock-”

“But I’m not sure if she’s in on it or just a middle man. I need to get behind the counter. Do you think you could distract her for about five minutes, just long enough for me to—”

“Sherlock.”

John took his arm and pulled him closer, shuffling over to make room.

“Doesn’t that look like the message at the bank?”

A waspish retort died on his tongue, because John wasn’t wrong. Compared against the pictures on his mobile, the brushstrokes of the reproduction _did_ resemble the bank message, if one made allowances for the spray paint’s lack of line variation. Having John stand in the Chairman’s office had been an excellent decision.

“Excuse me,” John raised his voice before Sherlock could plan their next move. “This painting here-”

“You want buy? Twelve pound, very nice!”

“No, er, do you know what it, ah, says?”

“Pretty hang in home. I think your wife, she will like!”

John flushed and gave Sherlock a sidelong look, visibly deflating.

“No. Erm. No, thank you.”

John’s usefulness was short-lived, but not a total waste. Sherlock’s operating theory that the message worked as a code primarily because of its placement and who the target audience was didn’t preclude it having individual meaning. Considering the effort undertaken to infiltrate the bank it made sense for there to be personal significance to the graffiti.

He herded a relieved John out of the shop and into a taxi as he made a mental note. If this lead didn’t pan out it would be better to investigate the shop alone and train John up as a proper distraction in future.

The Chinese art specialist at the National Antiquities Museum was gratifyingly eager to see them, though Sherlock had to suffer through small talk about the man’s workplace crush before he could get a word in edgewise.

“I’m not- I’m not sure exactly,” Andy Galbraith said as he looked at Sherlock’s mobile. “I don’t know as much about calligraphy as Soo Lin— That’s Soo Lin Yao, my coworker who quit unexpectedly. She’d really know more about this than I would.”

“Yes, of course.” He pasted on a smile and tried to direct the conversation before the man went into poetics about her eyes or some nonsense.

“But seeing as you don’t have her contact information-”

“No one does! She resigned right in the middle of an important piece of restoration.”

“We could look into it,” John suddenly interjected, “after we finish our current case.”

Sherlock choked back an annoyed retort. The point of this case had been to impress John; he could hardly belittle his methods in the middle of it.

Thankfully John’s reassurance worked and Galbraith gave them a general date range and a list of names to investigate before getting sidetracked again about his colleague. Sherlock took the proffered information and let John handle the rest of the conversation—something about teapots that had John making sympathetic noises.

Galbraith’s information seemed helpful until Sherlock started running searches in the cab. Damn _artists_ , always doing the same thing and claiming their product was special. It was just writing, why was there so _much_ of it?

“That was a bit like on the telly, wasn’t it?”

“What, sorry?”

“The, er, detecting. Look around the crime scene, follow up on a lead, question an expert. I almost expect the bit with the fancy forensics computer graphics, but even I know that’s made up.”

He kept forgetting this was supposed to be a date for John, but it seemed he needn’t worry. The other man looked positively keen, and Sherlock didn’t even have a killer for him to run down yet. He glanced at his mobile again and started a new text. John’s input was minimal, but he was pleased simply being involved, and Sherlock could use that.

“There’s another important aspect of the Work you could assist me in, if you’d like.”

The books from De Kleine’s flat were waiting at Baker Street when they arrived. Sherlock, doubting that John was versed in even the basics of Mandarin, gave him a list of keywords to look for and left him to it. It was unlikely he’d find anything, but John had pleasantly surprised him before. There was always a chance John helped spark a connection in Sherlock’s vastly superior intellect, and it saved him the effort of going through the books himself.

That, and John’s presence was surprisingly soothing, thumbing pages in the background as Sherlock blew up the picture from his mobile and tacked the printouts on the wall. After a few questions he faded easily into the background, and an assistant who knew when to shut up was worth any annoyance he’d experienced on their “date,” even that bit at the bank with Morstan.

The more he considered it, Mostan’s involvement actually worked in his favor. People attributed all variety of idealized emotional twaddle to former lovers with no basis in reality to easily refute. John was already inclined to favor him after the cabbie, but solving a case together would make obvious the difference between the reality of Sherlock’s brilliance and whatever ill-fated fantasies John had once nursed about Morstan.

He only needed to figure out the meaning behind the cryptic bank message. Knowing why De Kleine had been targeted would make it easier to find who’d killed him. Sherlock glanced at where John sat at the desk, highlighter in one hand as he squinted at a passage. Even with Galbraith’s information Chinese calligraphy was decidedly not his area. Maybe after John left for the night he’d follow up on the leads the doctor was less suited to assist with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1) Sorry for any anti-Mystrade readers out there. I considered other options, but the instant I thought up the "I get you in the divorce" line decided me that this was the pairing best suited to turning Mycroft into the Holmesian equivalent of the weepy best friend from the movie.  
> 2) I'm also not an expert in Chinese calligraphy or Chinese art of any kind, and beg the pardon of any thus-inclined readers for any mistakes you see is this and the next chapter.


End file.
